


Making Our Own Destiny

by Rhion



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/M, Fantasy, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-09-04
Updated: 2011-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-11 11:14:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 57,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/111790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhion/pseuds/Rhion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Withiel Tabris had to drag herself, and Ferelden, through the Blight, but she couldn't do it on her own, no matter how she tried. It took the steady hands of a Crow, a childhood nightmare made flesh, to show her that no one can stand alone.</p><p>Non-con situation warning for chapter 9: We Don't Need Words; Withiel uses herself as bait.</p><p>Rhion is co-author for chapters: Reclaiming What is Mine, Cornered, Magebane, and Heartpunch.</p><p>Download the pdf: <a href="https://docs.google.com/viewer?a=v&pid=explorer&chrome=true&srcid=0B0TRlpjYEFuCN2Y1YWVjYjctMjEwMy00NGIwLTgyNWUtYjc2NDg5NTBhNTBi&hl=en_GB&authkey=CMi9u4cP">HERE</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waiting for the Night

Darkness over Ferelden, darkness over Ostagar, darkness over the killing field, darkness over the Korcari Wilds, darkness over me. Travel by day, travel by night, it makes no difference. They tell me to stop, to make camp, but my leaden feet carry us onward, until I cannot walk another step, and _then_ we stop, where I lay, wherever I fall.

I look up at the sky. Tranquility? No, never again. That aching growl that never quits, not with all of _them_ out there. I fix my eyes upon the stars, the one that never moves, the north star. The moon shines down upon us, and I wonder how my life could have taken such a turn, from something that should have been so simple. Will there be deliverance? Surely this does not have to end in death and darkness. Surely they will not eventually pull me under in their tide. This cannot be entirely unbearable.

The night is still, no wind, deceptive in its calm. I hear the sounds of the night, but there: footsteps. I turn away; I don't want cold comfort from this shem I never met before. He means little to me, and his sympathy is thin.

Where are the angels of battle, those winged creatures who were supposed to bear away the souls of the fallen? I saw nothing, just a blinding flash of light. Maker save us all, for I don't think I'm strong enough to do it. I wait again and again for the night, for the time when I can collapse, where the pain in my body makes the pain in my soul more bearable. There is no peace to be found here, only death, only fear and darkness.

There will never be the loving embrace of the family I have lost, never again the softness of beds, the lessons of history, the tree, the yard, the arrangements and oversights. Just the people clamouring: the Wardens, the Wardens, help us, save us, take us away.


	2. First Touch

Skanda lay in a sunbeam, belly up, kicking his legs in his sleep. The forest was quiet; a few birds chirped lazily, the rushing of the waterfall drowning out anything else. Wynne snorted in her sleep, as she slept off the effect of the kit and healed. I leaned back against the cool rocks, trailing my fingers in the water. In the absence of Wynne's skill, we were on our own to dress our wounds. His had not been so very bad, a cut here, a small bite there; he'd been able to dress them himself in a matter of moments, and was basically fine. He was mostly too quick to be caught.

Not me, though. He held his hand above my leg, measuring the size of the giant bruise that was currently turning a very pretty shade of dark purple. It encircled my thigh, just above the knee: one of the few places where my armour did not quite overlap.

"If you soak this in the cold water of the stream, it will not spread so badly, and perhaps you will still be able to walk," he told me.

I sighed. "You're right, of course, but what about my shoulder? Won't blood in the water bring slimy, bitey things that will just make it all worse?"

He looked at me, a serious expression on his face. "Only if this were the ocean. Now, in you go." His voice was commanding, and I found myself complying before I even knew what I was doing. I gingerly shed everything on my lower half, and laid it carefully in a pile next to my pack. Sitting on a rock that was not quite submerged, I let my leg drift in the freezing water, pulling the other up so I could rest my chin on it.

"Now... about that armour, and all the blood. If you let me take a look at it, perhaps I can help."

I tightened my jaw and took a deep breath, turning my face away so that he could not see. _Let a man touch me? It's necessary. It's not like that. Do it. Say yes. Wynne's out of it, you can't walk very far right now, and if you leave a blood trail, you'll bring everything back with you to the camp._

I bit my lip, and nodded. "All right. Okay. Do it."

He kicked off his boots and rolled up his pants, then walked into the stream and stood behind me. He unbuckled and removed my breast- and back-plates. They stuck to the fabric where some of my blood had dried. I bit down on my knuckle as he peeled away the gambeson, and the shirt underneath that. Each layer pulled more blood and scabbing away from my torn skin. It _really_ hurt. I curled my fingers, digging my nails into my palm. I took deep breaths and squeezed my eyes shut. I was not going to show any weakness in front of this man. Not a scrap.

As the last layer came off, he hissed. "I'll not lie to you - this does not look good. You will bear the scar of this attack." He folded up my shirt, wetted it, and began to clean the blood off of the good skin. It was frigid, but effective. He squeezed water over the top of my shoulder, to let it run down both sides of the wound, front and back. The teeth marks were widely spaced; if my armour had been less hardy, I would have had a broken collar bone.

"These punctures are deep. I am going to have to clean them out before we can put poultices on." His voice was grim. That meant that this was going to hurt, a lot. I let out a shaking breath.

"Tell me exactly what you intend."

He was silent a moment, gentle fingers probing the weeping holes. "The torn skin will have to be cut away. There are pieces of armor and cloth inside the wounds that will have to be extracted. It will be quite painful."  
I clenched my jaw, then nodded decisively. "Just... hand me a strip of leather first." He waded over to his pack. Opening a pouch on the side, he pulled out several instruments of torture. I closed my eyes.

"No, no, come over here. I do not wish to be standing in the river with my toes turning blue." He motioned to another rock on the side of the stream. Obediently, I hobbled over and sat. He was right about one thing: my leg hurt less, and the bruise had not grown.

He handed me a strop, laid a gentle hand on the base of my neck, then began. "Try to hold still." There were 16 punctures: 8 each, front and back. Every one had to be individually cleaned before it could be dressed. I kept my eyes closed tightly, teeth clamped on the leather, arms rigid, body shaking, sweat beading on my forehead. No matter how hard I fought it, the tears came, too, but I would not cry, I would not scream. I bore it; I was strong, and I made no sound.

At last, the eight holes on my back were clean. He put a poultice on them, and I felt the first tingle that took the pain away. I let out a shaking breath, opening my eyes, and dropping the leather into my lap. I cupped my hand and splashed some cold water on my face. He turned me around then, to look at the marks on my collar bone. I took a few deep breaths to steel myself, then picked up the leather.

He resumed his work, and I bore it well, until he reached the two that were just above my breast. My first instinct was to flinch away from him, so I arched forward a little bit. I bent my head back, letting the sun fall across my face. I opened my eyes, trying to focus on anything, anything but the stabbing pains on my breast. But it was no use. I had taken too much, I was at the end of my rope. I trembled, no matter how hard I tried to hold myself still. A low, pain-wracked moan escaped through my teeth. He braced me with one hand on my back, between my shoulders, holding me steady. "Shhh... _bene_... nearly finished now," he murmured. I stifled a scream as a shard of metal came free from the last one.

I tried to relax. A single sob bubbled out of my lips, before I could swallow it, and the strap dropped into my lap again. With gentle hands, he placed a poultice over the bite in front. My eyes were still closed, as I breathed through the transition process, the pain receding. I took a few more shaking breaths, my head still tipped back to the sun. At last, I looked down. He was standing in front of me, examining the holes in my armour. He looked up and caught me looking at him; I blushed. _Why am I blushing?_

His voice was soft with respect. "You have exceptional endurance. _Never_ have I seen a woman so unyielding in the face of such pain."

I smiled, knowing how meaningful that compliment really was, coming from him. "Thank you," I said sincerely. His eyes slid away, and he retrieved my pack, handing it to me by the strap that had broken during the attack. He turned his back and I realized then, to my horror, that all I was wearing was a pair of panties. I quickly dug through my bag and put myself back together.

"Your armour is in need of repair," he remarked, his back still to me. "Perhaps we could speak to the Dalish--"

"_**No**_," I said, a little too harshly. He turned then, to regard me, arching an eyebrow in surprise. I scrubbed at my face with my hands, shaking my head. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to snap at you. I just... they... they treat me just like the shems do. They look down on me, on you. We're beneath the shem, and apparently beneath the Dalish as well." I ran my hands through my hair, frustrated. "Didn't you notice the way they talked to us? The condescension, the judgement? From _other elves_. As though it's _our_ fault, the accident of our birth-places, the circumstances of our lives. How can you stand it? I want to... I want to just..." I held my hands out in a circle, making a strangling gesture.

A shadow passed behind his eyes, and he nodded. I dropped my face into my hands. When I looked up again, he was much closer to me, too close, frighteningly close. I jumped back, tumbling off the rock. I was on my hands and knees in the dirt, my mind filling with scenes of blood and death and terror; I felt hands on my elbow, on my shoulder, and I screamed, fighting to get free. I scrambled backwards, trying to find my feet, and pulled a dagger out of my boot. I held it before me, snarling, ready to fend off my attackers, ready to protect my body. My back was against a boulder and I was shaking; I couldn't breathe - the fear was choking me.

He stood there, next to where I had fallen, his hands held out, away from his body, empty; he made no move toward me. He cocked his head, curious, but did not question me, or change his stance. Slowly, my trembling arm dropped as I caught my breath. My heart was in my throat as I slid down the boulder until I was sitting on the ground. I tucked my knife back into my boot, looked away, and rubbed my forehead.

He sat down on the ground, right where he was at, and propped his elbows on his knees. Skanda saw that there was no threat, and lay back down. I knew I was going to cry, and curled against the boulder. I held my trembling hands over my face, ashamed. I shook with silent sobs, refusing to allow voice to it, even though I couldn't still my muscles. When I stopped shuddering, at last, I wiped my tears on my shirt, completely embarrassed.

Tactfully, he had gone further down the stream a bit, toward Wynne and Skanda, and faced outward, away from me. I was grateful for the illusion of privacy. I crawled to the edge of the river and washed my face, then sat there, my hands in the water, staring at my reflection. At last, I rose and went to sit on the rock I had occupied while he had dressed my wounds.

"Zevran," I said, softly. He turned to look at me. "Please... come sit." I gestured to the other side of the rock as I pulled my knees up, then wrapped my arms around them. Haltingly, I related as much as I could of the incidents of my lost wedding day. Not enough, not everything... some things I could not bear to speak of. "...they _wanted_ me to _scream_, and I couldn't let them have it, it was the only thing I had control of... they _wanted_ it to _hurt_..."

He listened quietly, until I stumbled to a halt; I was too overwhelmed by my reaction, by the things that had happened, by finally telling _some_one. I could never get back all the things I had lost that day. The tears came again, and I buried my face in my hands, hating myself for this display of weakness.

After a few long moments, he spoke. "What do you wish me to do?"

I scrunched myself up even more. "I... I need someone to..." My shoulders hunched, and I dropped my forehead to my knees. "I feel so..." I couldn't finish. The heavy weight of shame and loss choked me.

"He has had too long of a life, perhaps?" I laughed, a short, sharp bark. I shook my head, wiped my face on my hands, and gave him a watery smile. I leaned back on my hands, turning my face to the sky, letting the sun dry my cheeks.

After a moment, I looked back at him. "He didn't live to brag."

He laughed and nodded, once. "Good."

I looked down then, and saw his hand, right next to mine. I sat that way for a while, staring at my own fingers, thinking. When I looked up at him again, he was watching the forest, bemused. I looked at his face, the point of his ear, the tattoos on his cheek. Since my ill-fated wedding, in the aftermath of those events, I hadn't been able to bear any kind of contact. It was one thing to let someone save your life, or dress your wounds. Those things were necessary, or understandably painful.

But this? _He's like me. Another elf, someone who understands what this life has been like. He's been hurt at their hands, raised in the city, used and enslaved. No one will ever understand me like he could. All I have to do is reach out. Just reach out. Just do it. Just move my hand, just that few inches..._ What was I thinking? This was a bad idea. This was the man who tried to kill me. Why would he have sympathy? _That was business, this is personal._

He was watching me, watching the emotions I could never manage to hide, playing across my face. I blushed, caught staring. Gone was his usual mocking look, the familiar lasciviousness. Just an honest, patient face, curiosity and concern written there. "What is it?" he murmured.

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my heart began to hurt. I was afraid of it. I couldn't do this.

I **had** to do this. Something had to give, or I was going to _break_.

I looked down at our hands again. Slowly, I slid my hand toward his. He watched me, waiting, and I looked into his golden eyes as I slipped just my smallest finger over his. He looked down at our hands, then back up at me. His gaze was steady. Maker help me, I was an emotional wreck, and a fat tear rolled down my face, unchecked. My weakness, bared to him, made me feel so small inside.

Very slowly, he raised his hand toward my face, and brushed the tear away with his thumb, his palm cupping my cheek. I closed my eyes, more stupid tears rolling over his fingers. I tried to speak, but I couldn't, so I just leaned my cheek into his hand. He slipped his other hand fully over mine and I shuddered, opening my eyes. Still, with that serious look. I touched his shoulder, tentatively, and he moved his hands to my shoulder and waist, offering an embrace. I scooted toward him, and hesitantly lay my head against his shoulder.

He put his arms around me and held me. I let him, willing my body to let go of the stiffness, and take the relief that was being offered. This was the first time I had let anyone truly _touch_ me in a very, very long time, the only person I felt safe enough with to be weak, even if it was only for a little while, and the only choice I had made for _myself_, so far. I leaned into him and wept bitter tears on his shoulder, letting go of the mask of strength for just a few, precious minutes. He rubbed my back in little circles, speaking words of comfort to me in Antivan, his cheek pressed against the top of my head.

My face was still red and puffy when Wynne finally woke. By then, I was at the stream again, on my hands and knees, washing my face. She could tell that something was wrong with me, and gave Zevran a suspicious glare.

What else could I do? I laughed.


	3. Moth to the Flame

I have no desire to go back to Denerim, but too many threads of binding duty draw me back in. I am the moth to the flame: though it burn me, onward I fly.

Alistair's "sister"; what a joke. Standing there demanding money, mewling about being a poor washer woman when she's got her own house on the edge of the market square itself. Too many mouths to feed, she says. Well, shem, after the first go, you might've learned where they all come from, yes? _("Gold. Anna. Anna wants gold, Alistair.")_

I stand in the street outside Goldanna's house, trying not to look too hard at my surroundings. Just another city, just another market, just like any place else, nowhere special. A kid runs up to me and hands me a note; before I can even take a breath, he scampers off.

Alistair groans. I clap him on the shoulder, distracted by the paper in my hand. "Everyone's out for themselves, my friend; might as well try to get a little for yourself, while you can. Watch your purse."

I catch it just out of the corner of my eye: Zevran, reading over my shoulder, goes that special kind of motionless. I smile, nice and easy. "Hey, Leliana, it looks like Alistair needs a drink. You know, there's a really good place just around the corner over there, the Gnawed Noble? Great ale." Alistair is oblivious, big innocent pup that he is. She gives us a nod, turning her sparkling charm on him. We follow along, several steps behind.

His body language, even his face, it all says "relaxed", but his eyes, they give him away. I smile, turn my face to the sun, stretch my arms a bit, and ask in a very casual tone, "See any place you want to visit?"

"I hear the leathers from Antiva are the finest in all of Thedas." His grin is wolfish, but cold as ice.

Maker. This is a missive from the Crows? I clear my throat, but I can't hide that he shook me.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Ignacio. Better the cat under your heel than at your back, yes? Deals must be made. At least this way, perhaps we bargain for our own freedom. Paedan and his rag-tag little band of cohorts were nothing. The next contract should be child's play.

Oh, how naïve am I; this was meant to kill us. Kadan-Fe mercenaries? How about a dozen giant Qu'nari brutes with giant swords, killer tactics, and no scruples?

They are very good at separating us. While six of them surround Sten, aiming to take down our greatest advantage against them, the rest of us are kept busy, pushed back by a wall of steel nearly seven feet tall. Three of them interpose themselves on either side of me, pushing me away from Zevran and Alistair.

I settle onto my toes, both my daggers at the ready as I feel the rush of battle slow down time for me again. I am a force of nature. These big men with their big swords - I'm too small for their broad shoulders and powerful swings. I dance between their blades, my sting darting between the joints of their armour. Here, a knee, there, an elbow; again, the side of a neck as one falls to the side. Upsetting the balance of the third, I ride him to the ground. The last is at my back; I roll between his legs and pierce the joint inside his thigh. He staggers, too stupid to know he's already dead, turns, and tries to swing again with boneless impotence.

Four lie at the feet of the Sten as a fifth finally succeeds in penetrating a joint in the back of his armour. They sneer as he falls, turning their attention to Alistair, but he is already falling under the weight of a crushing blow to his helmet. I turn, looking for Zev, but he, too, is falling; two of them lie at his feet, but a third still moving. There are four of them, and they are all looking at me. Zevran's is wounded badly, one of Sten's is limping; the other two are healthy as the day they were born.

Then there's me: one little elven girl, covered in blood.

I go for Zevran's first. He is so simple, I almost feel guilty. I leap up under his sword and drive my dagger into the base of his neck as I vault over his head. I take off running, the other three in hot pursuit, and weave among the tents of their camp, tangling the limping one in the lines. I double back and kick a log from the fire. Though it burns me, I wheel and launch it straight into the eyes of the closest one.

The third bears down on me, and I shove his blade aside at the last second, saving my right arm. The speed is still on me, and I aim three quick thrusts to his chest, followed by a sweep that leaves him scrabbling in the dirt for his innards. The other two circle me warily, and I can't keep them both in sight. I feint toward one, draw him forward, then leap for the one at my back. He does not go down easily; the other gives me a good spearing through the left side of my back, catching my ribs. It stops me cold. Fortunately, his friend is already falling away from me.

He yanks his sword out, and I stumble forward. My blood spills down my armour in a sickening wave. I will my legs to move, circle, _get out of the way!_ The falling sword flashes in my peripheral, and I get my dagger up only just in time to stop him taking my head off. I cough wetly, spit a mouthful of blood. _Maker, there's only one left, let me live long enough to save us all._ He growls at me. I remember Skanda and the Sten. I grin, and growl back. He blinks.

I dart to the side, losing more blood, the wound a burning hot agony. That moment of startle is just the edge I need, to strike straight to the heart of him, through the space under his upraised arm. I want to laugh at the expression of disbelief on his face, but the metallic taste of my own life chokes me. I stumble over to Zev, the closest person to me, and collapse at his side. His face is so pale, so strange. The ground is muddy with blood and there are gashes in his armour, through his lung, in his shoulder, the inside of his thigh.

I turn his face upward, panic rising in my chest; no breath, no heartbeat. _No, not him, not him!_ I bite the cork out of one of Wynne's vile elfroot concoctions and pour it down his throat with trembling hands. I massage his neck, make him swallow it. _The sun must be going down already._ The ground sways as his eyes open. I can barely make out his face in the dark, but I know he's awake, and I smile.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

_I see the bloody sword point, the cousin sagging to the floor, prayers to the Maker dying on her lips, dying with her, unanswered. The other women scream. _ _ **Shianni! SHIANNI!** _ _ The screaming, as they lay their hands on me. The screaming in my head as they touch me, bruising me, violating me. _ _ **Nelaros!** _ _ Their hands, covered in the blood of my family, their faces, their voices, over and over, and I can't escape, can't escape. They want me to hurt, they want me to scream, _ _ **scream** _ _. I fight, and struggle with it, try to keep myself quiet, don't give them what they want. _ _ **I will not break!** _ _ But the pain, and more laughing, and more hands on me, and their voices taunt me, and all the things they do to hurt me, hurt me again and again, _ _ **the knife-eared whore.** _ _ I cannot contain it, I am shamed when I give them their satisfaction when I scream, scream..._

_ **Scream!** _

I throw a punch at his face, and it connects with a satisfying crunch. The face falls away, and I am on my feet in a hot second, my knives in my hands. I coil myself to spring on the shem, but strong hands grab my wrists from behind. A man's voice, low and urgent, murmurs in my ear, but I am not going to listen to any more of their poisoned words. I twist my hands, trying to flip the daggers. His thumbs press painfully into my hands, and they open without my permission. My knives clatter to the ground and I struggle wildly.

The voice becomes insistent. He switches his grip and yanks my arms up behind my back, bending me over forward. I snarl and swing my leg to the side, but his knee is not where I expect it to be. I scream with frustration and try to bull forward, but he pulls me backward, off balance, and sweeps my feet out from under me. We land hard, his knees to either side of my hips, and he grunts with the impact.

Wait, I _know_ that voice. It is strained now, a thread of firm determination in it. _"Withiel! Era solo un sogno!"_ He's been repeating this, I realize, over and over. I still and unclench my fists as I try to listen, to understand. His grip loosens a bit, his voice quiets, dropping to a whisper at the end. _"Sei al sicuro. Noi siamo i tuoi amici. Shh... Niente panico. Era solo un sogno."_

Zev. All the air goes out of me in a rush. I am suddenly exhausted, and he lets me go. I clutch my hands to my stomach as nausea rolls over me. _Blood and elfroot, does it every time._ He kneels down next to me and I reach out, my fingers brushing against his knee weakly. He catches my hand, and I grip it tightly. "Get me out of here," I rasp. I am wobbling like a drunk as he pulls me to my feet and half carries me out of the camp. I don't even look back; I don't want to know who was watching, they all heard me. Distantly, I hear Alistair complaining to Wynne about his black eye.

Outside of camp, well into the woods, I drop to my knees and dig a hole at the base of a tree with my bare hands; three quick scoops, before it's too late and I retch.

He hands me a canteen, and I wash my face, rinse my mouth out. A handful of raisins and a few bites of bread settle my stomach. I crawl some distance from the burial place of my shame, and collapse on my side on a cool patch of moss.

"That bastard..." I sigh. My throat is raw, my voice strained. "He meant for us to be killed."

"I do not think that Ignacio bears us any malicious intent; it is merely business. If we succeed, then he fills a contract. If we fail, it is hardly his fault; the contracts on both you and I would be fulfilled, and directly benefit his reputation. Either way, he loses nothing, and gains much. We are pawns in this, expendable because our lives have been contracted." He shrugs. "Are we not used to being expendable?"

I laugh bitterly. He lies back on the moss next to me and looks up at the stars that are visible through the gaps in the tree canopy. I roll to my back, wincing, the pain in my ribs still echoing. The night is surprisingly clear. A long silence stretches between us.

"I thought you were dead," I whisper.

"So did I. It is truly a miracle to wake up to the personal mercy of a beautiful Grey Warden, twice in one lifetime. I must be an amusement to the Maker to have a life so blessed." He laughs under his breath.

We lie there in silence for a time, and then he turns his head to look at my profile. After a moment, I look back. He smiles, and it is enough to break the tension in me.

"Too much has been happening too quickly," I confide. "I feel like a bit of dandelion fluff, blown about on the wind. First this way, then that." I wave my fingers in the air. "How do you do it? How do you remain so confident, so comfortable in your skin, when you're so far from everything you've ever known, and there's no going back?"

He smirks, but then it drops away. He rolls to his side, facing me, and props himself up on one elbow. "Truly?" I nod. "To put it simply: I do not miss it."

I look back up at the sky, and the trees that frame it. I think about the alienage, the shabby walls, the cast-off food and clothing we were thrown, like scraps to the dogs.

"That's a good point," I whisper. "That's a _really_ good point."

I look at him again, his face above mine. This, between us, is a respectful distance and I realize, abruptly, that I don't want him to be respectful any more. When I thought he was dead, on the killing field, the world stopped. I can't imagine facing _anything_ that is to come without him to watch my back, without his humour, his advice, his skills. I need him in a way I have never needed anyone else, a deep-seated yearning that comes from the very heart of me. I just couldn't see it until it was almost too late.

Surprise flickers over his face, and then... a knowing smile. Oh, I've given myself away. My hands shake, but, hesitantly, with one finger, I trace the line of the tattoo on his cheek. "I've never felt any kind of safety," I whisper.

He catches my hand and presses his lips to my palm. His eyes are serious when he says, "There's no such thing."

"I know." I kiss him then, for the first time. He tangles his hand in my hair and kisses me back with so much heat, he leaves me breathless, arching toward him. I am ambushed by the sudden, overwhelming fire of my own emotions. I had no idea I felt this way.

He runs his hand down my arm, to twine his fingers with mine. I can feel his body, so close, but not touching, not yet. He draws back, looking down at me again. There is a question in his eyes, and my heart skips a beat. _Here? Now?_ I snake my other arm up and around his shoulder, run my fingers through his hair.

I kiss him again, let him pull me up against his chest. I slide my leg along his, my heart fluttering in my chest. He lets go of my fingers and runs his hand up my thigh, pulling it more securely against his leg. His touch slides up my ribs, and I surprise myself again, a small hum escaping me as his hand nears my breast. I gasp, and catch his wrist, breaking the kiss with tremendous effort. My breath is practically ragged with the desire I am trying so hard to deny. He pulls his hand away in favour of brushing my hair out of my face.

I blink, trying to focus. The question in his eyes is different now. "I-- I'm sorry," I stammer, "You must _know_ what an... effort... it is to say this, but..." I squeeze my eyes shut, and say all the rest in a rush, "I can't-- I can't-- Not yet, not even for you--"

He silences me with another kiss, more subdued and gentle. "_No, no. Va bene..._ Ah, it's all right... I understand," he whispers. He kisses my eyelids, my cheeks, my lips. "Until you are ready, _cara mia_, I am patient, yes?" He smiles and cups my cheek in his hand.

I relax at last, trusting that all is not lost. I close my eyes and lean into his hand, swallowing my bitter tears. I look back at him, his eyes full of understanding, and I hate it. I hate them all over again, and I would kill them all, again, just to have this, this man, this moment that I so desperately want. As we stand and dust the leaves and moss off of our clothing, I am resolved. They will _not_ take this from me. They will _not_ control me from beyond the grave.

I catch his hand, twine my fingers in his again, as we walk back to camp. "Soon," I whisper.

Oh, that smile of his: a promise of all that could be, all that is yet to be, if only I can set myself free.

 


	4. Suspicious Minds

Trust is such a difficult thing; I want to trust you, I try so hard, but it does not come so easily to me. You look at me with that smirk on your face, and I know what you're thinking. I don't know whether to run or throw myself into your arms. How can I get away from you? Why can't I resist you? You look away, but I know you're still watching me, weighing my reactions. How do you read me so easily?

Suspiciously dancing around each other, you playing coy, and I don't even know the steps of the dance. You touch me here, there; is that friendly, just flirtation, or does it mean more than that? You smile at me, but I see calculation in it. Is this desire meaningful, or is it reflex? Why don't you ever say anything outright, plainly?

Your hands are so expressive, what can I do to get you to put them on me? Yet, it's too easy. It can't be like that; you have to be serious about this. Is anything ever serious to you?

This is a trap. The question is, do I want to be caught in it? You weave your web of words around me, snaring me, my eyes always turning, turning in your direction, catching me every time; you always know when I'm looking at you. You turn your body toward me, and there is that fire, the heat I can't resist. You know, and you kiss me, lingering just long enough, giving just enough to make me crazy with desire, then leaving me trembling on the precipice as you walk away.

Does my desire matter to you, or will you use it against me? How can I play this game that you play so well, when you know the rules like a second language, and I've never played at all? I cannot turn you away, and I fear to trust you, but I want to be where you want me, and I don't know what that would even mean to you. Would you still respect me in the morning, or would your eyes move to the next conquest? I can't be that girl.

This has to mean something; this has to be real. I couldn't bear anything else. I don't trust you; please stay.


	5. Haven

"Haven", the note said.

It _sounded_ like it was going to be a _nice_ place, but this town is creepy; there's no one around, just one, lonely little boy with a morbid poem, and a lot of silence. Where is everyone?

I walk down to the lake and look out over the water. This, at least, looks peaceful.

The guard reluctantly agreed to let us trade at the shop, wherever that is, and we'd need to anyway if we hope to get more food before we go back down the mountain. I look around, but I don't see a sign. If this place is so small and insular as Zev observed, then the store must be the first place we come to, but this door does not lead to a shop.

The stench hits me in a sickening wave, and I stumble backwards out the door.

This...

...is someone's...

_...home?_

Nothing like a little blood sacrifice to bring a family together. I reel as I stand in the common area, gulping great breaths of fresh air. My misadventure has not gone unnoticed, however, and crazy shems with hollow faces and empty eyes spring up out of the ground and dart out from behind trees, like the sodding darkspawn. Where do they all come from? Their eyes are completely vacant. _What happened to their souls? _More importantly, why are they so willing to die upon our swords? 

We fight out way up to the top of the hill. I just want higher ground; Alistair seems to be of the opinion that the chantry will be easier to defend, but the place is already occupied by the bulk of the townsfolk. Talking to the "father" makes me feel like I've just had a mouthful of rotten fish oil. I am not sorry when Morrigan sets him on fire, but we end up pretty much slaughtering an entire town of people, and it makes me sick. Killing darkspawn, monsters, walking dead, these are things I can wrap my head around. People are a different matter; maybe not individually, but wholesale like this, I do not have the stomach for.

I wish we had Wynne with us, to help us when we find poor Genetivi trussed up and beaten in the back room. Man's got stones, though, to want to come with us up the mountain anyway.

The chapel is stunningly beautiful with the light shining down on the glittering snow, but like all beautiful things, it is also treacherous. The whole place is so rife with eggs, I guess I should have expected a dragon. I am in awe, and terrified; I know we're going to have to kill it.

Everything happens so quickly.

_Breath_  
The edge of the bridge suddenly crumbles away from under my feet, just like that. One moment, solid ground, the next moment, air. I try to jump back, but there's nothing to push off of. I twist, and reach out for the edge, but there's nothing to hold on to. Alistair turns, but he's four steps away, too far. The yawning chasm awaits me below. _After all this, what a disappointing way to die._

Breath  
As I fall below the level of the bridge, a strong hand grips my wrist. The yank in my shoulder is sharp, but I grip his wrist tightly, and look up into Zevran's face. He has flattened himself to the ground; he slides forward a bit with the impact of my downward momentum, and for a sickening moment, I think we're both going over the edge together. He grits his teeth. _We're all so much heavier in our armour._

_Breath_  
My head swims as vertigo sweeps over me. Our hands are slipping; in another heartbeat or two, I will fall. We both know it, and the fear in his eyes breaks my heart. _Why didn't I believe?_ My tears are stolen from my eyes by the icy wind that tugs insistently at me, making us lose our grips, inch by agonizing inch.

_Breath _  
The clatter of Alistair's armour against the stone precedes his head and shoulders by only a moment, and he reaches down. Zevran grabs my wrist with his other hand; I am terrified he will slide off the edge, with both hands on me, but his grip gives me just enough purchase to swing toward Alistair's outstretched hand.

They haul me back up to solid ground. I understand how he was able to use both hands when I see Morrigan sitting on Zev's lower back as I rise above the road level.

I crouch on hands and knees, breathing heavily, trying to master the quaking of my limbs. It is Morrigan who helps me to my feet, while the boys are still working on standing up and straightening their armour. I exchange glances with everyone, a silent conversation where we all acknowledge how close I just came, and I try really hard to brush it off.

"I think... I think it's time we went back to camp." I draw another shaking breath. "I want to consult with the Sten before we try to take on that dragon." I hate the weakness in my voice; I look at Alistair and clear my throat. "Um... _You_ lead for a while, okay?" He gives me a small smile and hugs me one-armed around the shoulders. "Thanks," I whisper, while his head is bent towards me, and he nods.

"Right, come on then," he says, and sets off. Morrigan rolls her eyes, looking between Zev and me, then turns on her heel and follows Alistair. I look at Zev, and catch him watching me warily. I want to reassure him, to smile for him, but I just can't. I brush the back of my hand against his, and hook my pinky through his. I meet his eyes again, but he has gone opaque. I sigh, and trudge on after Alistair.

I do really well at not falling apart. All the way back to camp, I keep my eyes on Alistair's heels and don't trip over anything. Since we cleared out all the darkspawn and crazy villagers, the trek back is quiet, and seems a lot shorter now that we don't have things or people leaping out at us around every corner.

I trudge into camp and head straight for the hot spring. Not for the first time, I bless Bodahn and his uncanny knack for finding camp-sites. The cave where the spring wells is perfect, the view inside the entrance blocked by low shrubs and a fortunately placed tree.

I begin to strip off my armour and clothing just outside the cave, warmth at my front and cold at my back. I hear a footfall on the path behind me and still my breathing to listen, but there is no other sound. There's only one person _that_ quiet.

Zev approaches while I am struggling with my gambeson laces. My hands are shaking again, and I am considering just cutting them and putting on new ones later when he covers my fingers with his own. I drop my arms and he unlaces me in a matter of moments. He moves to step back, but I catch his hands. When I look up at him, he is wearing that familiar devil-may-care expression, the one that I have come to know as his mask.

I stand in front of him, close as whispers. "You saved my life." He watches me, silent. "Thank you." I kiss him then, but his reaction is perfunctory, automatic. His hands lie motionless in mine; he makes no move to curl them, to respond, and I pull away, confused. His eyes are still impenetrable to me, and something... There is something cold about him now, something hard as steel, and I realize: this isn't my Zev; I'm looking at the arrogant mask of an Antivan Crow.

He crosses his arms over his chest and I press my lips together tightly, biting off the pain that wants to spill from my mouth. "Why did you come up here?" I work very hard to keep my tone even and reasonable, light and conversational.

His eyes become even more remote. He studies me carefully, and at length, he says, "You are right. I had no right to intrude." He waves a hand, dismissing me, and walks away. Stunned, I watch him trek back down the path to the camp. I feel sick.

Has it all just been a game to him? Has he been toying with me, all along? Today, when I nearly died, I saw his face. I _saw_ it. Did we come to very different conclusions? I suddenly thought I had been pushing him away for the wrong reasons. To find, instead, that I have been correct all along would cut like a knife. The heart can be a cruel master. I resolve that I cannot think on this any more today; too much else is at stake right now.

My clothing quickly goes into my helm, piece by piece. The almost-scalding heat of the water is a welcome distraction, and I turn my attention to the aching muscles and joints that took a little too much punishment over the last few days.

It's easier to turn my mind to battle and tactics, to plan our assault on the dragon, to throw myself into combat. In the morning, I take Sten, Alistair, and Wynne with me. With shaking hands, I ring the gong to wake the dragon. Then there's no time for any more thinking, only reaction, only calculation, only the killing dance. We only survive because of Wynne.

There is a critical moment when all three of us were down, and Wynne is staring into the mouth of the dragon. At the last moment, she manages to centre a spell that heals all of us at once. We rise up on its flank while it is still distracted by the idea of eating Wynne, and Alistair leaps upon its head to shove his sword into the back of it.

I stagger forward to enter the temple, blood still dripping off of my armour, feeling sacrilegious. We meet people so involved in the life of the Prophet that the Maker Himself _bound their spirits here_ to guard the ashes of His fallen favourite. _He hasn't abandoned us if Andraste's shrine can be such a holy place. Maybe the Blight isn't a punishment, but a test._

I forget who I'm with, then, when I see the light shining down on the urn, and I just do it. I take off my clothes and walk through a wall of fire. _I believe._ Feeling like a dirty grave-robber, I take the pinch we so desperately need. "I'm sorry, Andraste; please forgive me. We need this man to help us end the Blight. Surely you understand, right?" I murmur, filled with anxiety. I don't want to stay here any longer, in case I disturb her sleeping spirit. 

The moon has long since risen by the time we make it back. On the way, Alistair calls dibs on the spring, so I collapse on my bedroll. I mean to work on fixing the straps and padding on the inside of my helm, but my arms are just too tired. I lie back and stare at the stars, instead. I wait for Wynne to go, as well, and I try to wait for the Sten, but he pulls me aside and rumbles at me for being inattentive to myself. "Old blood smells like carrion. It attracts darkspawn. Go." I sigh, but I haul my tired carcass back up to the spring.

_How do my laces get so bloody tangled when they're covered by armour?_ I sit down, frustrated, and pick at them in the dark. Maybe I'll just pull it off over my head. I am trying to wriggle free of the neck, all the fabric bunched up around my face, when I hear footsteps on the path. Quick and light, a bounce to the toe. Must be Leliana. _Maker, am I the only one who isn't allowed to take a bath in peace? _I struggle free, at last, and find her leaning against the tree.

"Mind if I join you?" she asks. _Of course._ I shrug, feeling resigned. We sit in silence for a while, then she tells me this story about a woman who had had a bad marriage. Afterwards, she was so afraid of another one that she drove away all her suitors, until she eventually died alone.

I sigh and wash my face. "I... Thank you for the tale. I always love your stories, you know that. But... I didn't send him away."

"I _know_." She rises from the water. I slide up onto the rock to cool off as I watch her leave.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

I curl against a log overlooking the lake, my cloak pulled tightly around me. A chill breeze has been steadily freezing my nose since the moon was at its apex; I glance at the sky again, marking my time. _When the moon touches the trees._ The last marker had been half way from apex to the tree-line, but then I decided that the reflection has to at least touch the beach before I give up watch and lay down my weary bones.

I shiver. _Maybe sooner._

A rustling of fabric, a dark ripple in the corner of my eye, then a long strand of pale hair catches itself on the edge of my hood before blowing away. I wait, but after a while, I cannot stand it any more and I turn to look at him. He watches the lake, mask-less. "Are you all right?"

Who could have known that this would be the question to which he laid himself bare? His voice is all carelessness and ease, but I see the crushing weight of it in his eyes, and I remember Leliana's tale. I am shocked. Slowly, he slides his hand over and wraps his smallest finger over mine.

"It's _horrible,_ Zevran. No one should have to go through the things you've endured." He was a child raised in a place where love was a joke and trust was a weapon. Whomever held those ideals were to be laughed at, spit upon, manipulated and used. I shake my head, disgusted, and lean against his shoulder; he puts his arm around me, at last, and I sigh with relief.

We sit together in silence for a while. The moon is very close to the tree-line, when I finally speak again. "I once met an Antivan Crow. Did I tell you?"

He chuckles under his breath. "Oh? And was he devilishly handsome?"

"He was, he was _very_ handsome, but he was cold as the steel in his hands. Things did not work out very well for him, because of it."

He grows wary. "Did they not?"

"No. He really didn't get along with my best friend."

He is quiet for a time. "This best friend of yours. A woman?"

I shake my head, trying not to smile. "No, he's a man."

"And is _he_ handsome as well?"

"Oh, yes. Much, _much_ more so than the Crow could ever hope to have been."

He frowns. "I see..." he mutters. He takes another breath and tries for nonchalance. "What happened with this Crow?"

"Well, that's the sad part. One day, my friend killed him. I'm not exactly sure when it happened, actually."

He is very still, and his voice is low with caution. "Tell me, who is this protective friend of yours?"

I look up at him. "_You_ are... aren't you?" The look of surprise on his face is worth this small deception.

He pulls me into his lap and his gaze is intense; I feel like a mouse before a cat. He kisses me with enough heat to curl my toes, and I lose my mind. The next thing I know we've taken off my shirt, and I am only brought to my senses by the frigid wind that blows across my chest. I gasp and huddle against him, pulling my arms in reflexively.

"Coldcold coldcold cold...!" I whisper against his chest, agonized and shivering. He laughs and holds the cloaks tight around me so that I can put my shirt back on.

"Last time we stayed in Redcliffe, we had to share rooms in the Keep. I think when we go back, I'll just get a room at the inn. They have beds there." I shiver. "And a fireplace." He smiles at that, and it's sincere. A burden lifts from my back, and I return his smile with relief. "So... It's awfully cold tonight... And... I don't have a tent set up."

"Tch. Such a _shame._" He exaggerates an aggrieved face. "There's only one thing I can do; honour _demands_ that I share mine." There is that smile of his, the one that makes my heart stop, the one that makes me want to do whatever he says. "What a tedious burden; there's so little space, we shall be _terribly_ cramped," he murmurs, and I grin.

When I rise, he takes my hand, leading the way back to camp, his warm fingers folding securely around my frozen ones. I shiver, thinking of how warm I will be once I am settled in his arms. I try _not_ to think about the fact that I'm going to be spending the night in his tent for the first time, that I've never slept in someone else's bed, that I'm going to wake in the morning in his arms.

I wake Alistair for second watch, and he stares after us in shock as I crawl into Zev's tent. I give him a wink and Zev leers at him as he pulls the flap shut. He reaches up to touch my face, and his hand is almost hot against my cheek. “Tch. You are too stubborn, to spend so much time on watch when you do nothing but freeze yourself,” he mutters. In the gloom cast by the weakly flickering light of the camp fire, I can see him quickly arranging the blankets, and I start to get nervous.

He shrugs out of his cloak and strips off his shirt; when he pulls the cloak from my shoulders, I begin to shudder uncontrollably. I want to protest when he tugs my own tunic away from me, but my teeth are chattering too much and my shaking hands will not obey me. He presses me back into his bedroll and wraps the blankets around us, throwing the cloaks on top for extra warmth.

Before I can do anything else, he grabs me and pulls me into his chest. His skin is so hot, it feels like burning, but it feels so good, I whimper and wriggle closer. He wraps his arms around my shoulders, and I lay my cheek in the hollow of his shoulder. “Somehow, this is not what I imagined our first night in bed together would be like,” I say, my voice shaking as much as I am.

He laughs softly. “I do have you half-naked and clinging to me, trembling like a leaf,” he murmurs, and I blush. I look up at him, but whatever I'm going to say is swept out of my head by his lips closing over mine. I melt against him, and by the time he's finished with me, I am shaking for an entirely different reason. “You are warm now, yes?” he whispers, kissing the corner of my jaw. I nod, breathless. “Mh. Good. Now you sleep,” he commands, tucking my head under his chin.

He is right, infuriatingly often; once again, I would like to argue, but sleep overwhelms me before I can think of anything. For the first time since the Joining, I have no nightmares; this fact, alone, is enough to keep me in his bed. Let the others think what they will, I do not care; so long as I can continue to chase that peace, I'll follow him to the ends of Thedas.

I think I love him.

That doesn't scare me as much as it should.

 

 

 


	6. Trust

When we reach the edge of Arl Eamon's lands, Alistair pushes us hard. I've never seen him like this, all grim and harsh taskmaster. We set up and tear down in record time, and then practically run, all day long. He shortens the watches; we don't set up until full dark, and we're already marching before dawn has fully lightened the sky. It took us fourteen days to get there in the first place, but we arrive in late morning, only ten days after leaving Haven.

I feel like one giant bruise. We make the final ascent up to the castle, and I deliver the pouch of ashes. I feel awkward, standing in an Arl's bedchamber, but when he sees his family hale and whole, realizes it is we who have delivered them, he pledges his troops to the cause.

Reeling with a mixture of exhaustion and relief, I very nearly accept the room we are being offered. As I open my mouth, I feel Zev come up beside me; his warmth tingles along my arm, and suddenly all I can think about is crawling into bed with him. "I thank you for your kindness, Arl Eamon. However, I am unused to such luxury as your home has to offer. With respect, ser, I feel I would be more comfortable at the inn." I bow.

He laughs. "Of course, of course; I would not be surprised if most of our soldiers felt the same. Please, make yourself at home wherever you choose to lay your head."

I smile and thank him again. Half way down the hill, I realize that I left there by rote habit, my feet carrying me forward while my mind slipped away and slept. I have no idea what I might have said or done before I came to on the road, but I must not have done anything too crass since I don't have dogs and soldiers after me.

I climb up the steep slope to the inn, my legs deadening and refusing to cooperate now that they know rest is at hand. I lean against the bar, propping myself up on my hands. I probably look stern, but I really just feel like Skanda chewed me up and spat me out again.

I leave with a key in my hand, and the innkeeper looks pleased, which is good because I'm not really sure what I said. I'm pretty proud of myself: I don't stumble once going up the stairs. The key, however, is much harder to navigate, since my hands are vibrating at a fine tremble. I mutter a curse under my breath, and say, "Of course, the first lock to thwart me would be one I've got the key for." Zev chuckles under his breath and puts his hand on my arm. The tremble ceases and I am able to turn the lock at last. The door swings open, revealing a simple room with a decently sized bed, a trunk, two armour stands, and a table with two chairs. I heave a sigh of relief.

I forget the door entirely and cross the room to begin the process of hanging up my armour. I am so, so very glad to take off my helm. Once the armour is off, I have that curious floating feeling from the sudden removal of so much weight. My legs suddenly revive. "I think... I want to go get a bath before I sleep. I feel like I'm covered in filth."

"The road to Redcliffe is not exactly paved. Perhaps I will do the same."

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

I toss my dusty boots into the hollow at the bottom of my armour stand. Finally, I permit myself to lie down on the bed, but I collapse, actually. I sigh with happiness, and blink. When I open my eyes, it is fully dark and I can hear drunken chanting and laughter from downstairs. Zev is sitting at the table, one leg propped on the other knee, reading a book, and a trencher with cooling stew sits across the table from his empty board. When I sit up, I discover I am no longer wearing my breeches. Without looking up, he says, "They were filthy." A shadow of a smile flickers across his lips.

I blush, and crawl out of bed to sit in the chair across from him. I try not to bolt the food, but it's hard to be polite when I'm starving. A Warden's stomach is a beast that cannot be denied. At last, I sit back, my belly full and warm. "Mmmm. After weeks of rations, it's good to have a full stomach." He lays the book aside and looks at me. "How long was I asleep?"

He goes to the window and looks up at the moon. "It is half way to second watch." He leans against the wall and folds his arms over his chest. "Shall we join the carousing downstairs?"

I am suddenly overwhelmed, remembering why, exactly, we are here at the inn instead of at the castle. He raises an eyebrow. I feel the heavy blush coming over my face, and I drop my eyes to my lap, worry at my fingernails. "I... actually... um... no."

"Oh?" I can hear the archness in his voice, though he would sound perfectly casual to anyone else. I peek up at him. He is keeping a straight face, but I can tell he is repressing laughter. "What did you have in mind?" I bite my lip and lose my nerve. His eyes soften a bit. The inn quiets downstairs as a new group take up flute, drum, and dulcimer. He crosses the room and offers me his hand. I take it, hesitant, and he draws me to my feet. He catches me about the waist with his other hand, stretching our arms out to the side.

My eyes widen. "I've never danced before!"

He smiles, all confidence. "Do not worry, _cara_, I know the steps." My heart flutters. As the drum begins the beat, he pulls me closer, stomach to stomach. He rolls his hip forward and steps toward me, testing me, and I move with him, trying to echo his steps. After a few moments, I realize that we are pacing through many of the steps he has already taught me during long hours of practice at blades. I understand now why he calls it "the dance". It takes a bit of concentration, since I'm doing it backwards, but I soon get the hang of it. His grin broadens as my motions smooth out. "Ah, you are a natural."

I giggle, breathless, keenly aware of every move he makes, with our bodies pressed so intimately. He spins me out to the end of our arms' reach, then spirals me back in. I am moving so quickly that when I return to the base stance, I end up pressed tightly against his chest. I look up into his eyes as he wraps his arms around me and tremble in his embrace. He tilts his head toward me and my breath comes even faster. "Is this... part of the dance?" I whisper.

"Oh, yes, _mia ragazza dolce_, it is only the beginning," he breathes. It is then that I realize how much he's been holding back, as the heat of this kiss weakens my knees and leaves me whimpering. I gasp when he breaks away, feeling suddenly cold. _"Le tue labbra sono dolci come il miele,"_ he whispers. I look to his eyes. I had no idea what I was truly missing, and this first taste makes me hungry for more. He pulls back, just a little bit, and runs his fingers down my cheek, brushing a stray lock of hair aside. His voice is husky when he asks me, "Are you quite certain you know what it is you ask for, tonight?"

I shiver, missing the warmth of him already. "You?"

He laughs under his breath and kisses my forehead. "Yes, but it is also more than that, is it not?" I swallow hard, and nod. "_Che cosa desideri?_ Mh. Tell me what it is you desire of me." I hesitate, and he leans down to whisper in my ear. My eyes flutter closed as his breath tingles against my skin. "I must know." I shudder and sway toward him, but he gently holds me at a slight distance. "Tell me."

I press my cheek to his. "I am afraid," I whisper.

"Then it is not yet time," he replies. I throw my arms around his shoulders as he moves to pull away.

"Nono!" He pauses, and I rest my head against his shoulder. "I-- I'm... nervous. Intimidated. But-- oh, Zev..." I swallow and begin again. I close my eyes and turn my mouth toward his ear, not daring to raise my voice above a whisper, and I confess. "For months, I've dreamed about you: the flex of your hands, the way you roll your hips when you walk, the sound of your breathing after we spar... Sometimes I don't duck just so you'll put your arms around my waist.”

I hear his sharp intake of breath as his arms tighten around me. A moment later, he tips my head back to kiss me again, and I realize he was holding back even at the last kiss. I melt against him as he pulls me close, bending me backward a bit. I can feel every line of him, all at once, heady and intoxicating.

He slowly strokes down my leg and pulls it upward to wrap over his hip. I gasp at the new contact, and he takes advantage of the release of his lips to begin kissing me across the jaw, down the side of my neck. I tangle my fingers in his hair as he continues downward. He slides an arm under my bottom and lifts me off the floor, his lips travelling toward my breast. I cry out as his mouth closes over my nipple, a bolt of lightning striking to the very core of me.

I find myself lying amongst the tangled blankets of the bed, only dimly aware of the changing gravity. I try to memorize the shape of him with my hands: his back, his shoulders, his chest, and all the scars, there's so much to explore. He puts his hands to either side of my face, caressing me as his mouth moves lower, over my stomach, and lower still. I gasp and cry out, half a startled yelp, as he buries his face between my thighs, my hands automatically flying to his head. A moment later, I am moaning helplessly, my fingers flexing and tangling in his hair.

A wave of heat washes over me, tightening the muscles in my thighs and he breaks away, kissing them. I writhe, whispering his name as he splays a hand between my legs. Another jolt of pleasure bows my back as he slips a finger inside me. I hear him hiss between his teeth, and my eyes fly open.

He is kneeling, naked, rising above me, and the look of raw desire on his face disarms me completely. He leans forward to kiss me, trapping his hand between our hips, and I moan with the pressure. I cannot help but notice that what is currently pressed against my thigh is _much_ bigger than a finger, but before I can worry about that, he begins to move his fingers, and I forget.

I lose myself in a beautiful haze of heat and skin, breath and heartbeat, hands and kisses. Never, never have I felt this way; nothing could have prepared me for this. My thighs are trembling and the muscles of my stomach are tired when he pulls back from me, propped on his hands, our hips pressed together still. I am thinking that it's over now, but then he shifts and I feel that length press tightly against me, where his fingers have been. I feel my eyes widen, sudden comprehension dawning. _It wasn't just a cruelty, it was a mockery; this is how it's __**supposed**__ to happen._

He watches my face intently, and I fight to hold on to the feeling I had just a moment ago. I trust this man; he would never hurt me. So why am I scared?

Without warning, he drops down to his elbows, putting us nose to nose, and I blink, surprised. "You are frightened," he whispers.

I clear my throat. "Is-- Will it hurt?" I blurt out, and he smiles.

"It can, the first time... but it will not; not for you, not with me. I promise you." Slowly, then, he begins to move against me, and I wrap my arms around his shoulders. I bury my face in his neck, breathing in his cinnamon, wood smoke, and leather scent. He whispers in my ear, words I do not understand, but his native tongue is so beautiful, I listen intently, trying to remember the things he tells me.

_"Mi porterai dove vorrai... e del tuo mondo parte farò... accanto a te... sempre così... solo con te..."_

I am listening so carefully to him, I do not realize that he's already stepped across my threshold until he is filling me. I throw my head back, but before I can scream, he covers my mouth with his own. I do not know what he is doing, but I can feel his stomach muscles rippling, and a slow burn ignites at the place where we are joined. The feeling grows heavier and heavier, and I begin to moan uncontrollably. At last, he comes to rest against me, his hips nuzzling against mine, and pauses.

I quake, my breathing fast and ragged. Every movement, every shiver is beautiful agony. He smooths my hair off of my damp forehead, kisses my eyes, my cheeks, my forehead, my lips. I whimper as a heavy flex sends a throb all the way to my knees, and wriggle against him. "Tch." He smiles at me. _"Così impaziente, mia cara,"_ he whispers, a touch of amused reproach in his voice; then he _moves_, and I am lost, consumed by his fire.

I don't know I've been practically screaming until afterwards, when my voice is raw and my throat is sore as I lay there and gasp for breath. He rises from the bed to fetch us a glass of water, and I see welts on his shoulders, standing up in sharp relief beneath the tattoos.

"Oh, Maker, did I do that?"

"What?"

"Your back."

He chuckles. "_Si, cara,_ that was you." I am horrified, but he laughs at my expression as he returns to the bed. "No, no, do not fret. It is a compliment; even more so because you had no idea what you did, as you did it."

I shift, sitting up to accept the cup, and yelp at the immediate pain that blossoms beneath me. I press a hand to my stomach and moan piteously. He slips onto the bed next to me and gathers me to his side. "Sh, shhh... It will ache for a while. We must go out to walk along the edge of the lake a bit later, before we meet up with the rest of our companions."

I look at him. "What? Why?"

He smiles. "I could explain, but a demonstration will be more eloquent. A simple thing," he says, and stands, then crosses the room to put the cup on the table. He gestures to it. "Come. Have a drink."

I wince as I roll out of the bed and stand. I see my shirt draped over the back of one of the chairs. Thinking to put it on, I take two quick steps toward it before my knees buckle. He catches me, and I groan, letting him hold most of my weight for a moment. He gently lowers me onto the chair by the table. I shift uncomfortably and draw my shirt around me, focusing on the buttons. "Zev... Will it always hurt like this?"

"No." He kneels down next to me, to look up at my face. "In time, the ache will become less and less, until one night, perhaps a week or two from now, it will not hurt at all. I knew better than you what it was you offered me tonight, and what it would cost you to do so. What manner of monster would I be, to treat that carelessly?"

I throw my arms around his neck, heedless of the burst of pain it inspires. "Zev... I _knew_ it would be right with you. Thank you, thank you, it was-- _You_ are amazing." I sigh, a sudden wave of exhaustion rolling over me.

He kisses my neck and lets me lean on him on the way back to the bed. We crawl in together and he pulls me toward him, wrapping me up tightly in his arms. A profound sense of peace and satisfaction radiates out from the centre of my being, and I sigh with relief; a heavy, black burden falls away from my soul. I rest my head in the hollow of his shoulder and, as I drift off to sleep, I realize: this, him, us - it feels like coming home.


	7. Soul Deep

_lean my head against this bark  
rough, cold  
bugs_

dark up here  
trunk in the way  
can't see the fire  
can't hear them

good

night is alive  
deer passing  
owl on the hunt  
screech of mouse  
fear of rabbit

mind quiet  
no darkspawn

tired, tired  
just for now, no leading  
no questions  
no decisions

back alley kid makes good  
knife-eared whore with pretensions  
Warden with a duty  
woman with a history  
damaged goods

no time for love, she says

duty  
honour

tainted

no good, no good

so cry, cry  
weak  
worthless  
chattel  
slave

learn your place, learn your place  
one collar to another  
slavery to slavery

just another body on the pile

keep hiding  
coward

hollow shadow  
girl who used to be  
all burnt up  
all torn up  
all used up

gone

  
.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

  
"Withiel."

_his voice_

"Withiel."

_remember  
whispering in the dark  
warmth  
golden eyes  
safe arms_

scent of leather  
beeswax  
cinnamon

open your eyes  
open your---

"...Zev?"

His face isn't blacked; I can see him there, watching me from the next branch. I shudder, close my eyes.

_no  
not for you  
only duty  
no love_

"Withiel." I hear him moving. My branch shakes. His hand slides up my ankle, giving me warning. He carefully, gently, pulls my hands away from my face. I squeeze my eyes shut, turn away.

_can't bear it  
don't look  
no more  
no more  
not for us  
can't be, can't be  
tainted  
wrong  
don't deserve it_

forget me

"...don't... don't..."  
_coward_

"You are a very hard person to find, when you want to be. I came to tell you: I heard what she said to you."  
_  
cry, yes cry  
pathetic  
_  
His thumb brushes the tears away from my cheek. Just like the first time.  
_  
more tears  
perfect  
weak  
_  
I squeeze my eyes tighter, shaking. I sob, before I can choke it back.  
_  
remember  
tattoos  
skin  
lips  
hair  
breath  
_  
I sob again and shudder. I fold my arms over my stomach, but I can't hold it in. I could have borne it in silence, but now he's here, touching me, and he's the only one safe enough for me to cry in front of. I'm too weak, too selfish.

I moan quietly, the dam breaking completely, and I can't stop. I hate my weakness, but his arms are around me, and I can smell the comforting scent of his neck. The hard steel of the strength in him makes me feel so safe in his embrace. I curl against him, clutching a handful of his shirt; he whispers to me in Antivan, and it sounds like music. Eventually, I shudder to a halt, and look around.

His back is against the trunk, straddling the branch. I lay my head on his chest and listen to his heart beat as he strokes my hair.

"What, I wonder, could drive her to begin such a conversation with you?" This is the first question he has asked. I close my eyes again; my face is hot and the tears still threaten, but I can swallow them back this time. I clear my throat, trying not to choke on my lie.

"I don't know."

"Tch. You cannot seriously believe I am so easily fooled as that; you will have to do better." His voice is mild, but I can hear the reproach.

I sigh. "It's because she knows."

"About us? Everyone knows about us. We have not made any effort to keep our sleeping arrangement a secret."

"That..." I shut my mouth, but it's already too late.

He tilts his head to the side, looking down at me, and he is not amused. "What. You _do_ know what this is about. Why do you try to hide these things from me? You know I will only discover the truth in the end."

I sigh. He is right, again. "I do know. I just... I can't..." I'm not going to cry again. I'm not.

He smooths my hair away from my face and watches me intently. "There is something so very horrible that it terrifies even you?"

I smile, in spite of myself. I may seem fearsome and resolute to the others, but he is the one who has witnessed my weakness. "She showed me my selfish heart. I don't deserve it, not any of it."

"What could possibly be selfish about the heart of a woman who has saved so many, at such great personal sacrifice?"

"You."

"Ahh, it is 'irresponsible' to be spending time with me, yes? Hmmm." He thinks on this for a moment, then says, "This is what terrifies you so? The thought of not sharing my bed?"

I laugh, a half-hysterical little strangled noise. "Well, it's not quite _that_ simple," I confess.

I can feel him pause; I wouldn't hear it, except that I've got my ear pressed to his chest: his breath catches. His shoulders tighten, ever so slightly, and I feel that, too. Yet, he keeps his voice light when he asks me to "Explain."

I take a deep, shaking breath. "I am tainted, ruined. She's right; it is selfish of me to want more than the duty I've been handed, and unfair to you."

He relaxes again. "I thought this was a thing we shared. Have you somehow become worse since last night?"

I shake my head. "No, nothing has changed." I press closer to him, hugging him very tightly. He gathers me into his arms, tucks my head more securely under his chin. "There are some things I can't say, not even to you. But... but I _can_ talk to you, when I can't to anyone else. Do you know you're the only person _not_ my family who has ever seen me cry? It hurts, so much, that she thinks I should leave you, because I--” I swallow, hard. No, we are not going to speak of such things. “Er, because you're the only person I trust. She tells me I can't think about my own needs, that I have to stop getting distracted and focus on the threat of the Blight, and all of the people who are dying because of it."

I bury my face in his neck, my voice very small with the weight of the confession I spill out now. "I just can't think like that, no matter how hard I try. I... I _need_ you, Zev. It's selfish and cowardly and weak and pathetic, but I can't stand on my own. I need to be able to count on the fact that at least _you_ have got my back. I need to know that at the end of the day, I can lie down next to you, that you want _me_ there, that I can be safe with you, even if it's only an illusion. I need that. I need _you._"

"A certain amount of selfishness is required for simple survival. Shall you also stop eating because there are others who might be starving? If you lose hope and fall from exhaustion and heartache, how will you be able to help anyone? You must not listen to her; she is a good woman, but she is a mage, and tactical planning is not in her training." He sighs, and repeats his first words to me, a low whisper into my hair. I can't help it then, the tears come again, but this time, they are tears of relief. "Do not fret, _cara mia_; I am your man, without reservation." 


	8. A Roof Over our Heads

The trudge from Honnleath to Denerim was weeks of monotony punctuated by short bursts of bloody violence as we ran across roving bands of darkspawn, groups of bandits, and, on one notable occasion, turned up just in time to prevent a group of elves from being drowned like cats because their 'owners' could no longer afford to keep them. I'm not proud of what I did... but those shems deserved it.

Zev and I took first watch most nights, so we could spar before bed. We've also found it helps with nightmare prevention, if I fall down exhausted, sometimes. It works often enough to keep us hopeful. He has taught me so much, in such a short time; I am constantly in awe of his grace. We whispered to each other in the darkness, before sleep would steal over us, telling stories of our pasts, confessing secrets, and dancing around the idea of hoping for the future, neither of us willing to commit too much, even to idle words.

When the horizon finally revealed the hazy outline of the city, I thought it was a mirage. We were so close, none of us wanted to stop, so we pushed hard and arrived at the city just before they closed the gates.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

The Feddics truck off toward the warehouse district. “I'll meet up with you outside the city, Warden,” Bodahn calls, over his shoulder.

Shale lumbers off after them. “It assures me there are no birds, where it is going,” she says.

“Ah, at last, the comforts of the city,' Zev remarks. “Did you know that in any city, the most comfortable beds can be found in brothels?” I look at him incredulously; all this time, travelling together through the trackless reaches, and he wants to visit a brothel?

He chuckles under his breath and wraps an arm around my shoulders. He leans in to whisper in my ear, his voice low and sultry. He stretches his arm out in front of us, hand flat to the air, as though to call attention to a painting, listing off his agenda like a menu of exotic delicacies. “Think of the _fine_ rest that could be had: a hot bath, in a _real_ tub; perfumes, soaps, scented oils and _massage_; a meal cooked by experts; beds with feather-stuffed pillows... Hmm?” He slides his fingers into my hair, massaging the back of my head, the muscles that always ache under the weight of my helm. Unconsciously, I lean into him, my eyes fluttering.

He brushes his lips against mine, and I put my hand to his cheek, stealing a deeper kiss before he pulls away. “You did not seriously think I would wish to go there without you?” he asks. I bite my lip and blush. “Ah, and _there_, that is why I will not let you play cards, _cara_.” He laughs at me again and bites my neck. “_Tutto va bene, ragazza mia._ We will go together, yes? Come.” He tucks my hand into his elbow.

I can hear the mock-scowl in Alistair's voice. “Hey, hey, stop being disgusting, some of us still have to eat.”

“An excellent plan,” Zev agrees, instantly, looking at me with a lascivious sparkle to his eye.

Alistair groans. “Maker, that is _so_ not what I meant.”

Leliana clucks her tongue, looking coquettishly at Alistair, though he seems oblivious. “The Gnawed Noble is _much_ better lodgings,” she remarks, taking his arm. He looks startled, but bends his elbow automatically, suddenly becoming a knight. I repress the urge to snicker.

Wynne, taking Alistair's other arm, says, “I quite agree; a quiet place to sleep for a long while, on a bed not made of rocks, will be a welcome end to my night.”

Morrigan and Sten are very conspicuously looking anywhere but at each other, and I smirk. “Skanda,” I say, snapping my fingers, and he falls into step beside me, bumping my hip with his head. I reach down and scratch his head. “We'll be in the market, maybe after lunch,” I call out to whoever is still within earshot, grinning up at Zev. The wicked gleam in his eye makes my heart jump, and I blush again.

Once the rest of our friends are away from us, I sigh. “I wish we _were_ going to The Pearl right now.”

“Patience,” he murmurs, pulling me into the shadows with him. He pushes me into a corner and turns his back, standing still, watching the street out of the corner of his eye. A guard patrol draws parallel; one of the men looks straight at us, and does not see us. I let out the breath I've been holding as they walk past without pausing. The last thing we need is to be questioned, possibly beaten, and shoved back into the alienage.

He stalks along from shadow to shadow, and I sort of skulk along behind him, occasionally getting stuffed into corners or behind barrels, as the guards come along or overlap. We reach our target: a tailor's shop across the street from the residence of a highly-paid courtesan. We discovered, through a 'reliable source' that she is the secret mistress of the charismatic and influential eldest son of one of the Arls. He is married, with children, and has been paying for the housing of this woman and his bastard child, unbeknownst to anyone, possibly even the Arl. To prove these things will unseat him from his place of influence and discredit the Arl, who puts him forward too prominently.

Any little step to weaken Loghain's base of power is worth the hardship and exhaustion.

“Skanda,” I whisper, “Stay here at the corner, in the shadows, and lie down. If you hear any guards coming, let me know.” He snorts, and lays down where I ask.

We scale the wall, finding a perch on the rooftop where we have a good vantage point of the courtesan's windows. All the windows are dark. We watch for a tedious amount of time, but nothing stirs. At last, just when I am beginning to think I'll fall asleep here on the edge of the roof, Zev stirs. He rummages around in his pack, and pulls out a rope and a folding grappling hook; he covers his face with paint, and puts on an outfit made of dark grey silk that hides him from all but the keenest eyes. I bite my lip, watching him, noticing how tightly the silk hugs his skin. He flashes me a grin that shines in the darkness, and I blow him a kiss. “Good luck,” I whisper.

He throws the grappling hook, neatly encircling the branch of a tree across the way, and I pull the rope tight, tying it through a piece of decorative stonework on this side. I sit down, nervously scanning the streets around us, but all is quiet. I look back up at the rope, but he is already across it and gone. There's nothing left for me to do but chew my fingernails and watch the night. I see a shadow briefly pass over the balcony of her second floor, and a window opens and shuts in a matter of moments. I pass my hand over my face and rub my eyes, trying to shake the lethargy that wants to steal over me. I don't have time for my exhaustion, not yet.

Three blocks over, the guards' torchlight bobs along between the buildings. They aren't coming this way yet, but their patrol will put us in their path soon enough. Their path is ten blocks long, and we are on the fourth block. When they turn to come up our street, we'll have six blocks to get out of the way before they reach us. I drop my gaze and turn my head, wanting to look back toward the house to check on Zev, and get a dagger to my throat instead.

I freeze. I heard absolutely nothing, not a single footfall; how did someone sneak up on me so easily? Where was Skanda? They must have crept up the other side of the building. I try to look out of the corner of my eye, but the angle is wrong; I cannot see whether they have cut the rope that will bring Zev back. I inch my hand toward my dagger, but a strong hand grips my wrist and twists my arm up behind my back.

If I am fast enough, I can grab their arm, pitch forward and roll them over my back before they cut my throat. They will fall to their death, and I will survive, hopefully. I feel their breath hot on the back of my neck, and it makes me shudder. I sag, a feint of submission to relax their grip, then yank my arm down sharply, despite the pain in my shoulder, to distract them from my other hand. I get the dagger-arm by the wrist and tuck my feet under me, but at the last moment, I realize I've got silk under my hand.

I pause and reassess. Closing my eyes, I breathe deep, and smell leather, spice, and beeswax. “Zev,” I breathe, relieved beyond measure.

The knife disappears and he snorts quietly. “Tch. Sloppy,” he chastises, slapping my thigh playfully, and I hang my head. He quickly puts himself back together and stows his gear, then sits down with a cloth to wipe the black off his face.

“Did you find the box of letters?” He gives me a disdainful look. “Right. Sorry,” I mumble, and change the subject. “You know, I almost rolled you off the side of the roof.”

“And if my knife was quicker?” He swings his legs over the side of the roof, finding some toe holds and crawling down the wall. A moment later, I follow.

“I had to protect your retreat. I thought, at least I would take them down with me,” I whisper, sticking my fingers in between a couple of bricks.

“Glad I am that I did not have to return to such a mess. You have learned much, but your powers of observation are still lacking,” he says, reaching up to steady me as I near the street.

“Yes, well, if it had been anyone but you, I would have heard them. No one is as stealthy as you are.”

“You flatter me; there are others who are more silent, more deadly, than I. Keep on your toes, yes?” His casual tone is belied by the fierce hug he suddenly wraps me in.

Skanda stands, looking down the street, and nudges me with his shoulder. Six blocks away, the light of the guards' torch glimmers, coming around the corner and on to our street. Zev grabs my hand, and we run.

Several blocks away, we run across the path of another patrol. He spins, quickly throwing me over and down behind a low wall, flattening us to the ground by the simple expedient of throwing himself down on top of me. Not a moment later, torchlight falls across the alley, and one of the guards says, “Did you hear that?”

There is a pause, and the other one says, “Eh. Prob'ly just a cat.”

The first says, “No, it sounded like someone breathing.”

There is another pause, and I hold my breath as one of them comes closer. Zev's hand strokes the side of my face, and I realize I'm trembling. After a moment, the first guard, now right on the other side of the wall, says, “Ah, maybe you're right. Come on, let's go.” The footsteps recede, and the light fades.

I let my breath out, and he presses a kiss to the back of my neck before rolling off of me. He helps me to my feet, and I dust myself off. He pulls a bit of straw out of my hair and smiles at me disarmingly. I blush and look down, then he grabs my hand and we are off through the night.

Zev shoves me into a corner, several blocks later, and then again when we're a little over half way to The Pearl. A wave of weariness comes over me, and I rest my head against the wall as we wait for the guards to pass. Their conversation sounds remote and garbled as they pass by; I have only a moment to wonder why, before I black out.

The next thing I am aware of is the smell of food. I sit up, startled to discover I am completely naked and in a bed. Zev sits across the room, reading folded pages and looking weary beyond measure. My stomach growls audibly, and he glances up at me. He pushes a bowl closer to the other chair. I grab a tunic from my pack and throw it on, then sit down and eat. I sit back as he refolds the last letter and tucks it back in the box.

“Interesting reading?”

He sighs and rubs at his forehead, then replaces the lid. “There's enough lurid and flowery poetry in here to make even the most stalwart minstrel queasy. It will take little effort to expose the vices of our mark.”

“Please tell me you didn't have to carry me here.”

He smirks. “I could have, were it not for the box and our packs. But no, you rode here on Skanda's back.”

I blink. “Er... Wouldn't my arms and legs drag on the ground?”

“Your hands I tucked into his collar. As for your feet, well, there is very little in the way of restraint that cannot be solved with a belt.” I groan, and he laughs. “Oh yes, it was _completely_ undignified.”

“I'm sorry I passed out like that, I don't know what happened.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Truly? Hmm... Then, allow me to enlighten you.” He ticks off on his fingers. “You slept poorly last night, walked all day, fought off an attack by a band of brigands, scaled a wall, got surprised by an assassin, frightened by guards, and, most notably, you did not eat since lunch. As you so aptly demonstrated the day you finally refused to eat Alistair's dubious stew, hunger can make you faint, all by itself. You were walking by stubborn force of will; I had only hoped you would last long enough to make it here before you collapsed.”

I hang my head, chastened. The silence between us stretches on, and my head swirls with all the tales we told each other in the middle of the night, involving us, and a soft, warm bed. The things we planned inspired hope, gave us something to look forward to, kept us motivated and moving during the days. Sometimes, the idea of reaching Denerim and finding a warm bed to hide in was all that had kept me going.

At last, he stirs, and I look up.

“I'm sorry, Zev,” I say, softly. “My weakness was a danger to us.” He regards me over his hand, his fingers curled around his chin, propping his cheekbones by thumb and forefinger as he rests his elbow upon the tabletop. “How can I make it up to you?”

He points at the bed. “Sleep.”

I nod, and rise. He blows out the lamp when I am half way there, and I stumble over the foot of the bed before my eyes adjust to the darkness. “Ah, tch, don't you know better than that by now?” he scolds, catching me by the arm and righting me. “You always wait for your eyes to adjust before you move again.”

“You did not wait,” I say, feeling petulant.

He sighs, aggravated. “I am more observant,” he says, shortly, his voice having moved to the other side of the bed. I must be tired; this whole thing makes me want to cry. I take a few deep breaths and wait for the darkness to resolve itself into shadows.

“I hate it when you're upset with me,” I murmur, trying to keep my voice under control. I shift from foot to foot.

“Can you not see yet?”

“No.”

There is a rustle of cloth on the bed, and then he is behind me, his hand at my waist and his breath on my shoulder. “Close your eyes.”

“But it's already d--” his fingers across my lips silence me. I close them, obediently.

“Remember the room. How many steps from the table?”

I think back. I took three steps, then he blew out the lamp, one more, then I tripped over the bed. “Four and a half.”

“Turn; go back.” I turn, and he shadows me like a dancer, following my every move, his hand hovering over my waist. I take four steps and stop. I put my hands down, and find the edge of the table under them. “Good. Run your fingers along the edge, find the corners. Now remember: where is the table, in relation to the bed?”

My chair had been directly in the path from one side of the bed, so the corner of the table matches the corner of the bed. I trail my fingers to the corner, step sideways past the table, and turn again, facing what ought to be the aisle on the side of the bed. I go to step forward, but his hand presses against my stomach, gently. “How many steps to the bed?”

“Four and a half,” I repeat.

“Tch. That is to fall over the end of it. How many steps?”

“Six.” His hand moves away, and I take six steps forward.

“Now the hard part. How far are you from the bed?”

“Uh... I don't know.”

“Are you close enough to touch it, if you were to kneel?”

“Yes?”

“But you do not _know_.”

I shake my head. “No, I'm not sure.”

“Open your eyes.” I look around, and I am startled to realize that I can now see shadows in the pale filtered moonlight coming through the window. “This is how you see in the dark: when the light is extinguished, you close your eyes, and remember the room as it was in the light. Once you have reached your destination, you open them again, and take hold of that which you seek. We will practice this more, now that I am aware of it. For now, get into bed.”

I crawl in next to him and curl against his back, wrapping my arm around his waist. He pulls my hand up and kisses my fingertips, and the press of his lips pulls my strings. I sigh with it, and bury my face in the back of his neck. The warmth and the scent of him does nothing for my resolve to sleep, and I lose a breath. I can feel his lips curve against my fingers, and he says, “Insatiable, my Warden.”

I laugh under my breath. “Can't seem to help myself,” I murmur, kissing his shoulder. I pull him onto his back and kiss his neck, my hands roaming across his chest and stomach, and am rewarded when he plunges his fingers into my hair and purrs in my ear. I shiver and throw my leg over his hips, pulling myself to my hands and knees. His hands slide down my ribs and over my hips, down the outsides of my thighs and back up the inside.

I lean down and kiss him as he pulls me down by the waist. Unexpectedly, he pushes up and inside me at the same time, so soon, and it makes me blush, how easy it is already. He laughs knowingly as I gasp and shiver, and he shifts a little, burying himself in me completely. I might be on top, but there's no doubt about who is in control here, and that sends a hot rush of desire down my back. My opportunities to give over control without courting disaster are so few, I treasure those I am given.

He rolls his hips upward, and I rock against him, following his lead, keeping his rhythm. He curls his hands around my hips, and I adjust myself to his desires, knowing that he is right, because it always feels so good when I do. This time is no different. I tilt my hips and change my angle, sway and speed to suit him, and then it is suddenly so much sweeter it pulls a moan from me, and he growls under his breath in approval.

It isn't long before I'm shuddering and gasping his name, my fingers flexing against his chest, leaving little welts. He flips me over suddenly, as I lose my ability to keep up, and I cry out as everything changes, arching and writhing as he pulls me over the edge again with him. I curl against his shoulder as he falls to the bed next to me and caress his cheek with a shaking hand.

Oh, my heart. What am I doing? I don't know. All I can say for certain is that I never want anyone else to touch me, not ever. I fall asleep listening to his heart beat, secure in his arms, the only place on Thedas I have ever felt any kind of peace or safety.


	9. We Don't Need Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: non-con situation; Withiel uses herself as bait.

Crossing the market again, I try not to look at the Alienage walls. They won't let me in there; I can't go back. No reason for me to watch the gates; with a quarantine on, no one would be trying to cross the bridge... either one. The place is locked down so tight, not even Zev and I can get in. Too many guards.

Still, that's not the task tonight, so I turn my eyes away and try to concentrate. I tug my bodice down a bit. Leliana's torso is longer than mine, since she's Shem and all, but my bust is larger, so it works out all right. I guess. The real problem is that it goes down over my hips just a little too far, hampering my movement.

She'd clucked her tongue at me, trying to lace me in; apparently I wiggle too much. I don't like feeling constricted. “This is how it fits; this type of clothing isn't meant for fighting, it's meant for seduction. You will have to change your approach if you're to have any hope,” she'd advised, and then launched into a long explanation of how these things work.

My head is still whirling with all the last-minute advice she gave me. Hold my head this way, laugh that way, bat my eyes just so. I adjust my skirt for the hundredth time, and Zev suddenly curses under his breath. We are two short blocks away from our destination; unexpectedly, he hauls me into an alley and presses me up against the wall by my shoulders. My heart picks up, but he is eyeing me critically, and giving me that look that tells me I've irritated him. I shiver. I hate that look.

His voice has a hard edge that makes my stomach flutter. Him being mad at me should _not_ make him more sexy. It shouldn't. “Our lives depend on your composure tonight, _cara mia_. If you are constantly tugging at your clothing, you show that you are uncomfortable in it, which means you don't usually wear it, and _that_ reveals you to be out of place. And then? We are both in the middle of unknown and enemy territory without a plan, and too many hands to catch us. Do you see?” He arches an eyebrow, and I nod, blushing with embarrassment. “Good,” he growls. He steps back a bit, and eyes my bodice. “Tch. Lopsided again,” he mutters.

I gasp as he plunges his hands into my bodice, my eyes closing automatically, and he chuckles darkly, but it is quick, only a moment. Before I have a chance to react any further, his hands are at my waist, turning me around; the teetering of my balance on these ridiculous heels makes it impossible for me to resist his strength, and I find myself facing the wall, bracing myself with my hands. He tugs my hips toward him, bending me over, and I gasp again as he presses against me, trapping me between himself and the wall.

His hands leave hot trails through the silk of the bodice as he runs them over my hips and up my ribs, and then his fingers are at the laces. “Tch. She really has no idea what she does,” he murmurs. “Too tight, here...” I feel the bodice loosening around my hips and it is such a sweet relief. “...and here...” The laces loosen around my middle ribs, giving me more breathing room, and I gasp again. “...and not tight enough, here.” I whimper as my waist cinches down another inch. I hear his fingers trail down the laces and shiver as each cross thrums against my skin.

His hands drop to my hips and he thrusts his fingers up under the bottom of the corset, walking them around the lower edge and slowing just a fraction as he reaches the middle front. I shiver again and he presses a hot kiss to the nape of my neck. “Now. Turn around,” he commands, and I straighten up, reluctantly pulling from him. He steps closer, brushing the backs of his fingers across my cheek, and tucks a loose strand of hair back up into the complicated pile on my head. He runs his finger along the edge of my lip, wiping away a stray bit of lip rouge, and my eyes close again. Can't we just skip the party and go back to The Pearl? Alas, I know: no. We have work to do.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, approving his handiwork. Then he snaps his fingers right in front of my nose and my eyes fly open in surprise. That stern look in his eye has only softened a little, and I swallow. “You are no longer nervous. Now. Focus, yes?” I take a deep breath - as deep as the bodice allows, anyway - and nod. I hope I look confident.

We walk boldly up to the doors, and I present my - forged, of course - invitation. The doorman looks me over, notices Zev, looks at me again, and arches an eyebrow. I give him a haughty look. “Your... man... will have to stay outside,” he tells me.

“Oh, no, ser, you don't understand... We come as a matched pair, you see. Me dark and fair, he fair and dark,” I say, indicating our colouring, hair and skin. “Our master is very particular,” I say, blushing prettily, and press my arms together to call attention to my cleavage. “Now, if you will please excuse us, we mustn't keep him waiting, as he is very displeased when we are not punctual; I wouldn't want any trouble, ser, not on such an important night as this. He is expecting to show us off.” I wring my hands, the very picture of earnest nerves. He looks us over again, eyes the invitation critically, then shrugs. I smile. “Thank you.”

We're in.

There are so many people here at the Bann's estate, we will never be noticed. I mingle with minor officials and social climbers, and find myself a little clutch of hens of no importance to join. They are not surprised by my appearance; they seem to be courtesans and mistresses. I chatter innocently about topics of no importance, and watch the crowd. I snag a glass of some kind of wine from a man walking around with a tray. It tastes foul, but I smile as the other women praise it. When none of them are looking, I dump it into a plant behind me.

A few minutes later, I have dumped another glass. More conversation about theirs and other people's love lives; I take the opportunity to get out. I “confess” that I dislike the man I am mistress to, but can't get out of it, on account of my station in life. They look appropriately sympathetic. I work up a tear, ask the way to the powder room, and excuse myself. I teeter away, trying not to draw any further attention to myself.

I take one of the servants' doors and dash up a hidden staircase to the second floor. I meet Zev there, and open the lock to the Bann's door for him. We slip inside, find the box, and I pick that lock, too. We remove the Bann's contract with Loghain promising information on Alistair and I, regarding our activities and whereabouts. We also find another one for the informer himself, and now we have his name. I grab an expensive-looking set of jewels from the Lady's jewellery box and stuff them under my breast. Zev stashes the documents in his coat, and we put everything back where it belongs. I re-lock the box and the door, and we go our separate ways again.

Now, all that's left is for me to find the Bann's second-in-command and lure him away so I can plant the jewellery on him, along with the note implying that he intended to give it to his mistress, currently tucked under my other breast. It helps that he has a reputation for liking to force girls, particularly girls who look like me, but most especially if they're elves. I rejoin the hen party. I laugh and giggle along with their conversation again, “drink” another glass of wine.

They laugh when they notice how quickly I disposed of this glass, and one of them hands me another. I cover my mouth with my hand, and feign an embarrassed giggle. I drain my glass again in the same way. I begin to giggle more, pretending a small level of intoxication. This gives me a perfect excuse, when I catch sight of him, to “accidentally” drop my purse. I also “accidentally” flash my cleavage at him as I bend to fetch it. The bodice makes it extremely difficult to manoeuvre, but I manage to pull it off fairly gracefully.

The girls titter at me, complimenting my shoes. I giggle again and continue the inane conversation. I can tell he's watching me now. I take another glass of wine. The other girls are also well into their cups; the party has been going for nearly two hours now. One of them stumbles toward me, and so I arrange to stumble into her, and we spill our wine. She, on my skirt, me, down my bodice. I gasp - the wine is cold, after all - and look shocked. The other girl makes a big fuss, trying to brush the wine off my skirt, but it's no good, after all, and I finally say, “Don't worry about it, I'll go back to the powder room and try to clean myself up a bit.” I flash her a weak smile, and leave the party again.

Our mark follows me, as intended. I play the drunken maid, stumbling to the side and giggling to myself. I pretend I don't know he's there, and get “lost” going down a side hall. When the hallway ends abruptly, I shake my head, and turn around. He is much closer than I anticipated, and I don't have to feign how startled I am. This Shem is so much bigger than me, I'm not faking the fear in my eyes. He likes it. He _likes_ it. My heart leaps to my throat, and I am suddenly _not_ in control of myself. His eyes, his eyes! He's one of _them_. He was _there,_ on my wedding day, when I traded myself for their freedom.

Oh, Maker preserve me, what have I gotten myself into? Whose stupid idea was this? Oh yeah: mine. I'm an idiot. My breathing picks up, a black terror clutching at my heart. _Where is Zev?_

I protest weakly, backing up against the wall. He keeps coming, and puts his hands on my shoulders, to drag me in closer. A scream claws at my throat, I can feel my eyes widen, and he clamps his hand down on my throat, silencing me. “Ah, what have we here, hm? A pretty little knife-eared whore, oh yes. Look at you, all dressed up like a real woman,” he murmurs, turning my face to the side so he can lean in and bite my ear. Spots dance in front of my eyes, and I struggle involuntarily, twitching. Carelessly, he laughs and loosens his grip. I take great, shuddering breaths, as deep as the corset will allow, anyway, and it's not enough. _Zev, Zev where are you?_

I cannot shake the dizziness, cannot slow my breathing. He leers at me. “Oh, look at your pretty mouth, all painted up, just begging for someone to stick a cock in it. Isn't that right. You like to dress up like a real woman, hm?” he murmurs, and bites my neck hard enough to hurt, probably to bruise. I struggle against him, whimpering, and push his chest, but I can't get enough breath, my arms are tingling and I can't see straight.

“No! No, get off me!” I try to shout but all I can get enough breath for is another useless whimper, and he laughs nastily. He catches my hands, pinioning my wrists between his thick fingers, and yanks them up, over my head, pinning me against the wall. _Zev!_

“Oh no, no, you don't mean that, do you, because if you did, you wouldn't be here, playing at being a woman. We both know that you aren't. I can do anything I like right now, and no one will care, will they. Because you're just a knife-ear, not really a person at all,” he reflects, and moves his hand from my throat to force it down the front of my bodice. I panic.

His breath smells of onions and liquor. His grip is crushing me, bruising my wrists. I close my eyes tightly, turning my face to the side as he grabs my breast. My vision begins to flash in and out, little spaces of blackness that are bad, bad, me losing time. In the next moment, we're both on the floor, and he's on top of me. I struggle wildly, making little screaming noises in my throat. I try to scramble backwards, straining for air as he grabs at my ankles and pulls me forward. My skirt hikes up to my waist, exposing me completely, and he tugs at his breeches in anticipation. _Oh, Zev, I hope you get those letters out._

I gasp a moment before he wraps his fingers around my throat again. Dizziness overwhelms me. Darkness closes in from all sides, and the sound of the party fades away. I feel his loathsome hands sliding up my thigh, then... then...

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

I wake up, a face leaning over me. I scream at the top of my lungs and lash out. Strong hands capture my wrists and pin them to the ground. A whispering voice in my ear... Antivan, it's Antivan. “Zev!”

I leap toward him and crush him with my terrified embrace. He rocks back on his heels and catches me. I realize now that I'm naked to the waist, but I don't care. I bury my face in his neck and shake with the sobs that I cannot give voice to.

“Oh, oh Maker, Zev, where were you, where were you?!” I whisper into his hair, my voice shaking just as badly as I am.

He sighs. “I was detained by a group of noblewomen who wanted to play with my 'pretty hair' and take me to their beds. Caught in the open like that, I could not extricate myself quickly enough.” The disgust in his voice is clear. He shakes his head and pulls me closer, cradling my head against his shoulder with one hand. “It took too much time to convince them that I was not available for the evening. I will never forgive myself for this. You are right: I should have been there.”

He pulls a blanket from somewhere and wraps it around me. I realize I don't even know where we are, and I don't care. If he's not concerned, then we're safe, and that's good enough.

“As it is, I came only just in time. I saw you faint when he dragged you across the floor, and I... relieved him of his consciousness... before he was able to actually do harm to you.” His hands twitch, and I realize that if that man is still alive, he has no idea how lucky he is. “Unfortunately, the tightness of the corset kept you from breathing, in your fear. I carried you out over my shoulder, through the kitchens. I told them you drank too much wine, and needed to make a discreet exit to save your reputation. They believed me easily enough. Leliana will not forgive me so easily for what I have done to her beautiful bodice.”

I look around and find it discarded on the floor next to us. I pick it up and see that he'd cut the laces up the back, and the fabric there is torn by the knife. As skilled as he is with a blade, the fact the cloth is cut is shocking. I look at his face. His mouth is twisted, furious, he's on fire with it. I look back at the bodice, at the slit up the back, and think about what that means, coming from his hands.

“Does he yet live?” My voice is small, in awe of his wrath.

His face darkens even more. “More's the pity,” he spits, venomously. “I placed the jewellery and note upon his person. I rather hope that this will be the death of him, and if it isn't? Well... _non sarebbe l'unico bastardo_...” He shakes his head, his eyebrows drawing together, his fingers curling. He takes another breath, visibly trying to steady himself, and raises a finger to brush a lock of hair from my eye. “Forgive me, _cara_. _A__ morire nella sua stessa merda... Cazzo!_” He hisses, trying to master himself, taking a deep breath. I have never seen him so angry he forgot how to speak the common tongue, and I quail. He shakes his head, and trails his fingers down my arms, and something about this steadies him. He is more himself when he looks at me again. “Many deserving vermin have met their ends at the point of a knife in a dark alley, no?”

I wrap my arms around his shoulders and kiss the corner of his jaw, his ear, and slowly, slowly, that tension begins to ease out of his shoulders. I punctuate my words with kisses as my lips travel down his neck, across his shoulders, following the line of tension, pushing it away. “Zev, my Zev, you got there, you got to me in time. I'm okay, you're okay, we finished the job, we got the letters. I'm safe, because of you.” I'm suddenly hungry to erase the shem's hands from my skin and write over it with Zev's, purge his breath from my senses and replace it with the scent of leather and cinnamon, obliterate the pain and put pleasure in its place, drown that panic in my lover's eyes. I want him to lay his claim upon me again, I want to prove that I belong to no one else.

My kisses drop lower, and lower, down his chest, across his stomach, and his soft moan pulls strings deep in my belly. At last he is relaxing, and his hands slide up my shoulders to tangle in my hair as I reach the laces of his pants. We don't speak anything else with words for hours. I can feel it in his hands, in his kisses, in the way that he clings to me, holds me close, in the gentle desperation of our embrace. We don't need words. I know how close I came, how close we both came, to being dumped down a dark well.

We don't need words for this. We are more pure, more true, more real than that insipid little three-word concept the bards and poets prattle on about, in their innocence and stupidity. They have no idea. They have never been consumed from within, never willingly immolated themselves on the fire of their lover's body, giving everything, sacrificing all. There are no words for this, only actions, only skin and breath.

At last, exhausted, I lay my head against his shoulder, and he pulls me fiercely to his side, so tightly there is no way to get closer. He whispers into my hair, words of music in Antivan, and I fall asleep here, safe here, skin to skin, with the only man who has ever inspired so much faith, respect, and... this, _this_. Only him.


	10. In the Watches of the Night

I crouch down in the darkness next to my mabari and whisper in his ear. “Skanda. Stay here, and watch for nosy guards. Distract them, but don't give them reason to attack you, if you can help it. Try to draw them away. After we leave, go back to the Pearl. If they won't let you in, go 'round to the kitchens. Magda should know you by now. Try - _nicely_ \- to get something to eat, and wait for us there.” He dips his head, a doggie nod. I scratch him behind the ears and kiss the top of his head.

I blow Zev a kiss goodbye. He flashes me that grin that's always made my heart melt. Even though I've seen him do it before, I still don't understand how he can flatten himself against a wall and just melt away, even in broad daylight. Even if I'm watching him.

I climb the side of another warehouse and make my way silently across the roofs. I hate tightropes. “Think of it as the swaying of a boat,” he'd advised, not realizing I've never been _on_ one except for the skiff that goes from Kinloch to the shore of Calenhad.

It takes a lot of ingenuity to pick a window lock when you're clinging for dear life on one out-of-line brick, one chipped brick, and a patch of dry moss.

The warehouse smells of dust, and old leather. I breathe it in, wondering how he might feel about the place. I scan the shadows, looking for a sign of him. Could he be that lump behind those crates? What about that deep shadow behind the door?

A shem walks in from the dock side and makes his way to a square, cleared area. I skulk along the beam until I am right above him. He is nervous and fidgety, and bites his nails. The Bann's second comes in on the road-side and I have to force myself to stillness, to not just attack him wildly, though I immediately enjoy several visions of myself painting the crates with his blood, my daggers rising and falling as I paint his eyes with the same fear he caused me, as I repay him for my pain a thousand times over.

I blink, trying to focus. The second gets straight to the point. “What have you got for me?”

The informant shifts, but begins speaking. “The woman in't in love with the Templar. She's been at The Pearl with the Crow. The Wardens've been fightin' in whispers, most likely about that rose she wouldn't take from him.”

I am livid. This piece of trash has been shadowing us, and not even Zev has picked up on it. _H__ow __**dare**__ you talk about that, that was __**painful**__._

“Camp talk is all about stayin' put. Templar goes around in the woods by himself a lot, but he's not stupid. When girl and the Crow leave, they always take that dog. And last night, I saw the Crow carrying a woman. He went down an alley near the Bann's estate and disappeared. She was dressed like a noble.”

I'm immobilized by shock. How distracted would Zev have needed to be to not notice some stupid shem following him?

The second is speaking again. “What dress was she wearing?”

“Uh, it was dark blue, with some lacy bits just here, and here,” he gestures to his own body, imitating breasts, hips, as he outlines my silhouette. “It had a puffy skirt with other shades of blue on it. She had long black hair all pinned up and curly like this.” He motions around his head, approximating the hairstyle I had worn last night. The bottom drops out of my stomach.

_Oh. There's going to be murder done tonight._

I pull a little vial out of my pouch and let it fall between them as the shem opens his mouth to bellow with murderous fury. Oh, he knows. He knows it was me, and he didn't get what he wanted from me, not this time. The knowledge burns him like a brand, and he would have my flayed for supper if he knew where I hid, right now. I feel myself go ice-cold.

The bomb explodes on the floor, throwing up a cloud of smoke. I leap down from my perch and ride the spy to the ground. The scarf over my mouth keeps me from choking on the smoke, and I do my best to keep things clean. This man is just doing a job, so he doesn't deserve agony. One stroke; I slice his throat open and wait for him to stop struggling. It only takes a moment.

When I stand and turn around, Zev has the second up against a heavy support post. One of his blades is at the shem's throat; he pulls back from whispering in the man's ear. The shem looks horrified, terrified, and Zev grins viciously. Slowly, very slowly, he slides his blade up and under the man's ribcage, letting the shem feel every inch of the cold steel, every little piece of him it cuts through, and the man groans with the pain of it. When he reaches the hilt, he jerks it upward, sharply. The man screams, sharp, short, high-pitched, and then he twists the knife and it is over. The shem slides down the post, leaving a stripe of blood all the way down, his eyes locked forever in that terrified, pain-wracked expression.

Zev looks... feral. His mouth twists with disgust, and I wonder if he's regretting not drawing it out, the way his hands flex against his daggers. I must have made some small sound, because he turns and looks at me then, quick as a cat, and the savagery drops like a discarded mask. I wonder, which was the mask: the violence or the eyes he gives me afterwards? Can they both be true?

Skanda barks.

We bolt in opposite directions. Time passes by the heartbeat, by the breath. Everything seems slow, measured. Even when the guard catch sight of me, I'm gone so swiftly they think I was a ghost.

I dart down a darkened alley, trying to take a short-cut to The Pearl. I just want to get home, just... 'home', what a strange thing to think about a whorehouse. I don't care, I really don't. If I can just get there, the night can be over and--

Shock! I am on my face, no instant in between. There are footsteps behind me, quick, at least two pairs. My mind is screaming for me to move, to bolt, to _just sodding run!_ I scramble forward, trying to get out of the way of whatever is coming for me, _who_ever is coming for me, but I'm too late. I roll to my feet, but a terrible point of burning pain strikes me in the back of the thigh, followed by one that catches me under the shoulder-blade. The impacts make me stumble.

Something is wrong, and my vision swims; I feel sick, and break out into a cold sweat. I shake my head, get my daggers in my hands and tuck them up against my forearms so they aren't too visible. I'm losing focus, dangerously. A figure comes up beside me as I try to get further down the street, and it has a knife. I stumble against it and whip a dagger into its side, blocking the knife with my other arm. I careen around a corner, completely disoriented.

Leaning against a wall, I break off the arrows, biting my arm to stop from screaming and giving away my position. I emerge from the alley... emerge from...__

Dizzy. Street steady as a tightrope. Tightropes. He taught me about those. Where is he? At home. Go to The Pearl. Move feet, this street. I giggle.

The ground rises up and attacks me several times. So do a few walls.

_Oh, dizzy._

Here's a door. I know this door. This is a good door. Put head right here.

“Magda. MagdaMagdaMagda, open a door please.” Did I just sing?

_There she is. Kitchen, yes. Stairs. Climb up the wooden mountain. All the way up to the top. There's that door. Too far to open. I'll just... lie down right here._

I close my eyes in a slow blink. “I'm covered in blood.”

He regards me seriously. “Yes. You are.” Where did he come from?

“Some of it's mine. I feel dizzy.” I crawl into the bedroom by the strength of my stubborn will alone and haul myself up and over the edge of the empty tub.

My fingers won't obey me, my hands are shaking. Why won't my arms cooperate any more? My blood is burning in my veins. “Poison,” I gasp, writhing with it. He is suddenly in motion, swiftly turning me; he grabs my leg and forces it over, manhandling me, and I cry out. His hands against the wound in my thigh make me want to scream and I turn, biting into my arm again, and he hisses. He pulls me to him and looks at my face, pries my eyes open, tests my skin temperature, opens my mouth and smells my breath, leans in and smells the skin of my neck. My stomach rolls and I black out again.

He slaps me, hard, and I open my eyes. “Tell me what you are feeling,” he demands, voice harsh and I try to open my mouth, but it's stuffed with old socks. A tiny part of my mind is screaming that there is something wrong, something very wrong, but mostly I just want to go back to sleep. But this is Zev. I always listen to Zev.

“Burning... my blood... sick... dizzy... tastes like socks... sleepy...” I murmur, my eyes rolling up in my head. Something is choking me. I want to open my eyes, but I can't. Someone is shouting at me. I gag as something heavy goes down my throat. Oh, just leave me alone. I just want to sleep...  
“[ANTIVAN: --el, _no, I will not let you do this to me, you are stronger than this, you must wake up, Withiel, my girl, you must wake_\--]” I groan. Everything hurts. Someone threw me off the roof and let a herd of horses run over me. Then I think I was savaged by wild dogs.

“Maker...” I open my eyes, and the light from the candles is too bright. Zev is leaning over me, and I realize I am cradled in his arms, my head against his shoulder. He looks so relieved, but I only have a moment to register that before he is kissing me passionately. I try to respond, but he pulls away and smooths the hair off my face. I notice now that I'm fairly drenched; I feel sticky and gross. “What...?”

“You tried to die. I was not going to let that happen.” He cups my cheek in his hand and smooths his thumb over my cheekbone. “But now we must get the arrows out, and this will not be pleasant.”

He peels away my pants, cutting the leather when it gets too close to the wound in my thigh. He hands me a piece of it, sympathy in his eyes. I bite down, hard, and don't scream when the arrow comes out, but it takes a while before I can gather a breath. By then, the kit is already washing away some of the pain.

"This one is... very, very bad." The one in my back. "It's in the bone, and the wood is splintered under the skin. I will have to... dig... to get it out."

I shudder. "Give me a new piece of leather." There's no helping this one. It's long. It's torture. I scream.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

I lay on the bed and stare at the ceiling. He sits next to me, leaning on his arm, watching the colour of the candle flame as he holds one of the arrow heads over it. "Where did they come from?"

"I didn't see them. I couldn't really see anything. I'm not exactly sure how I managed to find my way here, actually. In short, I have no idea." We are silent a moment. "There's cold comfort knowing that at least that one in particular won't be at my heels."

He shakes his head. “No, whoever it was is a hand. The arm, the head, they are still a mystery, and heads like that control many hands. This poison is not common. I wish you had been aware enough to bring one of the ends with you; the fletching might have told us more.” He sighs, stroking my cheek as I think to feel guilty for this. “No, _cara_, you could not possibly have thought. We are lucky you live at all. Once again, I find I should have been at your side. This cannot happen again. You must stay closer, or I cannot protect you.”

I nod, putting my fingers over his. He puts the arrow head down and rubs his hand across his forehead. I look at the window, and remember how I had thought of this room as 'home', in my delirium. “I have to say, somehow I'm not surprised that our first place together is a room in a brothel,” I comment. A wry grin curves my lips to the side.

His head turns so fast, I burst out laughing. Still giggling, I blow out the candle. The moon shines through the slats in the window.

I can see his profile against the light. I reach out, hook my pinky over his. I hear him exhale. He turns his face to the moon. “Hey.” He looks down, our hands caught in a line of moonlight. He turns his hand upwards, holding my fingers in his palm. My hand is smaller than his; why have I never noticed how big his hands are?

I tug, gently; he lets me pull him forward, to lie on the bed next to me. I curl against him, rest my head in the hollow of his shoulder. I feel his shoulders tense, just a little bit, before he speaks. I wonder if he knows that I can read these things. His voice is deceptively casual. “Back at the warehouse, at the end of the battle, you were looking at me with the strangest expression on your face. Tell me, what were you thinking just then?”

I look up at him. “I was... at a loss. There were many things I wanted to say, but no time for it.” He goes motionless, like a statue. I hate it when he does that in bed. It's unnerving. I raise my head to face him more fully. “I've never seen you like that.” He turns away, but I put a hand on his cheek, and gently press back until he is looking at me again.

“No. Listen. I understood last night when I saw the back of the bodice. I knew what was going to happen next, and I knew _why_.” He cups my cheek in his hand, I lean into his palm. I curse my traitorous eyes and lose a tear. This one lands on his hand. I turn my face and press my lips to his palm. “_Thank you_,” I whisper.

His eyes change then, and I can see something... burning. In two heartbeats, I am on my back with him above me, pinning me with his hips. He kisses me for so long, I am drowning in him before he ever touches my skin. I shiver and sigh for him; he has never been sweeter, never been more gentle. The way he moves against me has me gasping his name and leaving nail tracks across his hips; he is so much softer, and yet I am so much hotter for him this way. I cling to him, crying into his shoulder as he drags me over that precipice again and again until I am mewling like a kitten and utterly helpless beneath him. His touch, his kiss, it has never, never been like this.

We stay entwined for a long while after, neither of us willing to let go. He speaks to me then, while I am yet wrapped around him, awkward, dancing around the subject. I try to speak, but he places one finger against my lips and I fall silent. At last, he presses an earring into my hand. It is beautiful, and I am stunned; I kiss him again, overwhelmed with emotion, threading my fingers into his hair. He draws away after a time, and I can hear him rummaging around in his pack.

After a time, he turns back to me, and I see the cold glint of a needle in the moonlight. He pulls me over to him, has me lay my head upon his thigh, and brushes the hair away from my ear with gentle fingers. I gasp a little when the point bites into my flesh, but it is over quickly, and he is wiping away the blood; then he takes the earring from my hand and hooks it through the hole, the permanent mark on me that he has made. There's no escaping the truth of it now: I'm his.

As he wraps his arms around me again, pulling me into him, tucking my head under his chin and getting me to wrap my leg over his hip just so, I admit it to myself, even if I could never bring myself to say it any other way. I love this man. He makes me feel safe, actually safe, for the first time in my life. I could walk to the ends of Thedas, and I'd never find anyone who could ever compare. No more questioning; I'll never belong to another.


	11. Making Our Own Destiny Such Great Heights

It all seems so easy: just talk to the Banns and the Arls. Just talk. Make everyone listen to an elf. Right. A Warden, sure, but still nothing more than an upstart elf who wants to change the world. Can you stand beside me while I do this? If it's two of us, it's not so hard, two elves who can help raise up our brethren, get them out of the alienages, maybe, cut them free of their slavery in fact instead of just in theory. I am missing you in the middle of this task, with only Alistair to be my company. He understand nothing, how high this Order has risen me from the mud, from our roots.

Can you still feel me in your arms, like I can smell your body on my clothing? Here is my dream: these shem will see us, will see how equal we are, will finally respect our right to exist. With what I do now, we can bring us up; if we can put us on _their_ level, we turn ourselves into People of Importance. We will become great leaders; we will become Those Who Are to be Looked Up To.

Can you see it? We can make it, we _will_ make it happen. We can do this, but only together. I cannot stand without you, so tell me you'll never leave me, and kiss me quick, before the demon comes and the sky falls in.


	12. The Sky Resembles Blood

I stand in the hallway, hands pressed to my roiling stomach. I can't believe I have to do this. With trembling heart, I raise my hand and rap upon the heavy oak door. Alistair opens it, half-naked, scrubbing a towel over his head. He stops when he sees me, and gives me a level look.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the disturbing feeling he just ignited in the pit of my stomach. We are long past such things; it has got to be just nerves. He stirs, and I realize I’ve been caught staring blankly at his chest, hovering on his threshold. I look up at his eyes, and I see all the things I am feeling right now reflected there: resignation, exhaustion, determination, abject terror sublimated by dedication to our duty.

His eyes soften, and he reaches out, hugs me for the first time since that disastrous conversation a couple of months after we met Zev. I can't help it, I completely fall apart. He pulls me into the room and kicks the door shut. I cry all over his chest, because he is the only one who truly knows what is coming for us tomorrow, because I can't cry on Zev over this, because it's a Warden secret and I can't even tell the man I love.

Bless him, Alistair, how patient he has been with me and my fickle heart. At last, as I finally shudder to a halt and slump, exhausted, against him, he smooths my hair from my damp face. He takes my chin, tilts my face up, and kisses me softly. Not an expression of passion, but a gesture of kindness and comfort.

“Withiel, don't cry. You're going to walk away from this, I promise you.” I squeeze my eyes shut to keep from bursting into tears again, but it is a futile gesture, as a fresh flood pours over my cheeks. “I've never seen you cry,” he murmurs, wiping my face with his towel.

Oh, sweet, kind, gentle Alistair, offering his life for me as though it is a foregone conclusion, as though it is nothing. “Alistair,” I begin, but I choke on it, and he puts his arms around me again.

“What is this? Are all these tears for me?” He is completely astonished, and I curse myself for not being kinder to him. All I can do is nod, and he hugs me closer. “It's good to know that I will be missed,” he whispers, and this is a punch to the gut. There's nothing for it. The fact is, I love this bumbling Shem. He's been a brother to me, I have taken his presence for granted, and I am sick with it.

So, I turn my face upward and kiss him, trying to convey all the turbulence in my soul. He groans, falling into me with the release of all his long-pent emotions. As he responds to me, I realize that he is still, even now, in love with me, and this, too, breaks my heart.

He pulls away, the searing pain writ clearly across his face. He looks at me with such _need_, and it is a powerful thing. I am caught flat-footed. Never did I imagine that this lay beneath the surface, all this time. “Alistair,” I breathe, putting a hand to his cheek. “I do care about you, you know. I would be utterly crushed if you sacrifice yourself to this.”

He shakes his head. “One of us has to die, Withiel.” His voice, his face, so grim, so full of agony. “If not Riordan, then... I can't let it be you. I have to know that you will be out there, somewhere, having a happy life... with Zev...” he finishes in a whisper.

“But I can't let you go like that, just like that,” I snap my fingers, “snuffed out like a midnight candle, lost forever. Alistair, it's too much, I care too much. _Maker_, Alistair, surely you couldn't miss it, could you? That conversation was so painful for me, too.”

He is looking at me, his face, so vulnerable, so lost, in so much pain. “What are you saying?” He is demanding, his voice harsh with all the things we never spoke of.

I put my hands to either side of his face, and look him straight in the eyes. “I am trying to say... I...” I can't even say this to Zev, it's not part of my make-up, but right now, this is the thing Alistair needs to hear more than anything else, because no one, no one has ever said it. I take a deep breath. “I love you, Alistair. I do. I always have.”

He closes his eyes, his heartbreak twisting his face. “Then, tell me, Withiel, why wasn't I good enough for you?”

I blink, shocked. “What?!” I turn his face back to mine, make him look me in the eye again. “You've got it backward again. You are _too good_ for me. I don't deserve you; you are too kind, too honest. I could tell right away by the looks you gave me in Lothering when I killed those bandits on the bridge, when you realized that I know about traps and poisons.” I shake my head in negation. “I felt like I was lying to you, making you less, making you _dirty_, just by being around you sometimes, and I couldn't let anyone touch me, not for a long time, and especially not... well, because of... anyway, it wasn't _you_.”

It wouldn't help, at this point, to tell him that his being a shem got in the way, that his revelation about his heritage put him too far away, completely out of my ken. He is struck speechless, so I plough on. I take his hands. “It is because I care so much that I am here, now, and I think that maybe what I have to say next will make you hate me, but I can't just... go on...” I bite my lip. “Somehow, Morrigan knows about what we have to do tomorrow. She says that there is an ancient magic that will protect us all, that will throw it onto her, but it comes at a price.” He watches me with increasingly wary eyes.

“What price?”

“She has to be pregnant by a Warden. Tonight. I'd bed the bitch myself, if I could, to spare you this, but there is no other option. I told her to go fuck Riordan, but she says he's been in the Order too long, and it won't work.” He stares at me, stunned.

“You... want me to... _sleep_ with... _Morrigan_?” The disgust in his voice is clear. “You realize I've never... with _anyone_... and... if this works, I'll have to live with... _that_... that _she_ was...” He shudders. “Do you know how _horrible_ that is?”

I blink. “You haven't? But all those nights you spent with Lel...”

He laughs mirthlessly. “No. That was about you and me, not about me and her.” I stare at him, horrified; he looks at me, his face grim, resigned... sad.

“Maker, Alistair,” I whisper. “Your first should be someone who loves you.”

There is that cold laugh again. I can't stand it. “It's too late for that now, isn't it.”

I bite my lip, staring at him. Do I have the heart for this? Do I have the courage? He's not just some shem, now, he's Alistair, and that's a completely different thing. I take a breath and hesitate, but only for a moment. I can't let it be like that.

“There are hours and hours left in the night, yet. I can only give you the choice... But, whether you go to her, or-- or go-- to your... end... I can't let it be like that... Don't let it be like that, Alistair.” I have to do something, I have to be the first one to reach out. Tentatively, I raise my hand and run my fingers through his hair, and he closes his eyes. So I kiss him, and he doesn't break away this time. I give him the only gift I have left and, for just a little while, we forget what darkness lies ahead. I make sure that, if nothing else, he _has_ been touched by love. I hold him, after, and we cry on each other. I kiss him one last time, then tell him that I will see him tomorrow.

When I close the door behind me and turn to leave, I am startled by Zev emerging from the shadows next to Alistair's door. His eyes are so remote; my heart is breaking all over again. I sigh, defeated, and cast my eyes to the floor. Ah, curse my frightened heart for giving me so many tears tonight. I see them drop to the floor, little wet circles on the flags. “Zev... I--”

I am startled as he presses a finger to my lips to shush me, then puts his arms around me. “No, no, _è bene, ragazza mia, è bene..._ Shhh...” he murmurs into my hair as I burst into tears again. “Did you think I would not follow you?” I make some choked, strangled sound that falls somewhere between a sob and a laugh, and I can feel him smile against my head. “I heard all, and it is a piece of mercy you offered. In the face of two such dire fates, I would be disappointed if you had _not_ shown him that kindness.” He kisses me behind the ear, and I shiver. “I also heard _you_, and I happen to know that this was an act of pure generosity on your part. Come, visit the baths with me, and perhaps then you will let me show you the same kindness.”

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

I am staggering. The sounds of battle are remote and tinny in my ears. I shout, point to the ballista; Redcliffe's men scramble out of the way, trying to reach it in time. My own voice echoes hollow in my ears. Wynne lies broken on the stones. Bodies are strewn everywhere like a child's carelessly cast off toys. The scent of darkspawn, charred flesh, and spilled blood has lodged in my nose so completely, it's all I can taste. An arrow whistles past my face as I move toward the dragon again. Zev is nearly kicked over the side of the roof, skidding across the ground on his back. The dragon whips its tail around, sweeping it across the ground, scattering the bodies of the fallen.

It turns its head to the sky and shrieks, sprays its dark fire all across the archers, sickening them, and they crumple to the ground. My head rings with the scream, echoing in my mind, as it tugs on me to submit, to obey, to just lay down and _die_. So I drag myself forward, just to spite it. I can feel my broken ribs grind against my armour as I raise my blades to its flank again. I hear Alistair's voice on the other side of its body, screaming obscenities and defiance as he hacks away at its armoured skin.

The dragon kicks out again as I circle behind it, sending me flying backwards. I crash into someone who shoves me forward again; I have no time to look behind me. I stumble forward, ducking the tail, and leap upon its back. I drive my daggers straight downward into its spine, using the weight of my body to push them deep. A gout of vile blood sprays me in the face as I whip them back out. I see Alistair jump and scramble up the side of the demon, sword upraised, he drives it deep into the back of the dragon's head.

I am screaming, the dragon is screaming, Alistair is screaming. The taint in my blood pulls like a thousand shards of glass, ripping through my veins, ripping through my mind. The scream of the dragon goes on and on, for hours and moments. Every beat of my heart feels like a dagger to my chest. I am choking, I am coughing up blood, I am on my hands and knees on the stones, no idea how I got here, and the sudden silence echoes and echoes and echoes.

The dragon's tail flops weakly on the stones, flailing in its dying throes. Though the inner voice is silenced, the body refuses to give up its movement. I crawl, stumble, crawl, drag myself to my feet and fall again. I stagger over to the dragon, my daggers still buried in its back, only the hilt of Alistair's sword still protruding from its skull. On the other side of it, on the other side of its head, on the other side of the dragon, I crawl over its head, too hurt, too exhausted, and on the other side, his armour, his body, he is on the ground, motionless.

I fall toward him, I fall next to him, I reach out – are these blood-soaked, trembling hands really mine? – I fumble with the buckles, I pull off his helm. So much blood, so much blood. “Alistair, Alistair, you big, dumb Shem, what did you do, what did you do?” I hold his face in my hands, my tears falling on his face. Impatiently, I throw off my gloves, try to smooth the blood from his face with my bare hands, and as I wipe the blood from his eyelids, I feel his eyes moving under my fingertips.

He groans, and I laugh hysterically. “Ohhh... my head. Mmmm... I _knew_ you thought I was dumb.”

“Oh, Maker, you're completely stupid. And you're alive, you're alive, oh, I'm so sorry you had to do that, but you're alive.” I cover his face with kisses, despite the blood, until he laughs.

Then a coldness enters my heart, as the heat of the battle falls away from me. My head swims, my ribs creak, but I stagger to my feet. “Zev,” I breathe. He is not next to me; he has not come. If he yet stood, he would be at my side now. I look around wildly, but do not see him, not anywhere. I stumble across the blood-slick ground, the dragon's body going on for miles as I drag myself forward, toward the tail, toward the edge of the roof, and he is there, still as the stones.

_Maker, don't let me be too late._ I can't go any farther. I fall to my knees, on the flags again, crawling, and there's so much blood everywhere, everywhere, all this blood mixing on the stones, blood on my hands, everywhere, all of us covered in it. “Zev!”

I search him frantically. A slash across his scalp, cuts on his arms, a gash in his armour, we've had worse; my fingers scramble over his legs, searching, all the cuts, none of them deep enough, none of them so deep to let enough blood to kill him, none of it enough, what is wrong, what is wrong? I pat his cheek, smooth his hair away from his face, lean down to kiss him... this is when it registers.

No breath.

I scream in horror; my world is burning down.

“Zev!” I am sobbing. “Zev, you bastard, you can't... you can't...” and then Alistair is prying me off of him, and Wynne is kneeling next to him. I can't help it, I am fighting him, I don't even know what I'm screaming, his name echoing in my head. Both Wynne and Zev are glowing with a white aura, growing brighter and brighter. I am beyond reason. I thrash against Alistair's grip; Zev, oh, Zev, I just have to reach him, I just have to reach him, and Alistair won't let go of me. And then the glow is fading, and I see his hand, his fingers, they're moving, and I break free, I rip myself free of Alistair, and I go crashing to the ground, and I crawl, and then everything is okay again, because he's alive, he's alive.

He puts his arms around me as I collapse next to him, finally running out of the manic energy that has been possessing me, suddenly feeling my own mortality slipping, all the broken bones and lost blood. But it's okay, it's okay. We did it, and both of them, my brother and my lover, they're okay, so I can sleep, I can sleep now.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

“It's _your_ party. You _have_ to go.”

I snort. “Fine. But I'm not dancing.” I fix Alistair with a hard eye, and he holds up his hands.

“Okay, okay, no one will make you,” he says, laughing.

“Oh, I disagree, _mia ragazza dolce_,” Zev says, coming in from the bedroom. He flashes me that grin, the one he _knows_ makes me weak in the knees. “You will dance with _me_.” He moves across the room, all cat's grace and leans down to whisper in my ear. “_Solo per me_, hmm?”

I turn to whisper in his ear, see the door swinging shut behind Alistair. “_Sì, amor, solo con te_.” I grin as he starts back, a smile spreading across his face.

“You are learning!”

“Yes, of course. It's important to me that I understand what you're whispering in my ear when you forget how to speak the common tongue.”

He grins. “_Qualsiasi cosa te desidera, mia cara_.”

I shiver. “We had better go, before I forget that I'm expected elsewhere.” And oh, the look he gives me then, I can't wait for this thing to be over. He tucks my hand in the crook of his elbow as we leave the suite. Alistair is standing outside, talking to one of the guards companionably. They turn and walk down the hall ahead of us.

“Zev, I _really_ don't want to do this.”

“Everything will be just fine, _cara_. I will still be at your back, every minute.”

I close my eyes, still gripped in icy fear. I hate crowds, I hate nobility, I hate the idea that I'm about to be surrounded by a bunch of shem, I hate Anora and her snooty looks, I hate being in some great big shem palace, and, oh, I hate this “Hero of Ferelden” business.

“Oh, Maker, Zev, talk to me, tell me about something, anything, focus me on something else far away from here,” I whisper.

And so through all those long hallways he leans close to me and whispers in my ear a tale of Antiva City: the heat, the wine, the sultry nights, the clear summer sky and the smell of the sea, the music, the food, the artisans' crafts. Then, just before we enter that glittering throng, he says, “...and one day we will live there, you and I, on the shores of the Rialto Bay, and we will have _so_ many children, the neighbours will all look at us and say, 'By the Maker, they are _disgusting_'.”

And so it is that I enter the ballroom, laughing, and blushing furiously, on the arm of the man I love. It is so wonderful to see all my family here, making the shems uncomfortable, and Zev, oh, he charms them all. “No, I don't want your alienage, give it to Shianni,” and now, “Zev, get me out of here...!” as all the nobles descend. Zev extricates me from the room so smoothly, I barely have time to wave goodbye. Which is good, because at the moment I am having a hard time breathing from the press of so many who are so much bigger than me.

I practically run back to the suite. I stand with my back to the door and stare at Zev with wild eyes. “I need to leave. I need to be on the road. Now. Oh, Maker, I _hate_ this place, worse than Orzammar.” I run to him and hide against his chest. “I miss our room at The Pearl.”

“Why don't we go to the hot spring outside of the city? All our gear is already here. We could go now, tonight, and escape all this. What say you?”

I start stripping off this ridiculous dress immediately and leave it in piles on the way to the bedroom. He laughs and follows me. I can't breathe until I finally have the familiar weight of my armour on me, my daggers on my back, my pack filled and ready to go. I finally feel... _real_ again. I go to run my fingers through my hair and discover all the terrible things they did to it still there. I wail.

Zev laughs again. I'm near panic. “Maker, Zev, get it off me before I start ripping my hair out,” I whisper, agonized. His fingers expertly unravel the strands and my hair tumbles about my head as it should.

I have to get out of this place. The intricately painted walls and ceiling, all the fancy furniture, the thick carpets on the floors, the gigantic, squashy bed, it's all so oppressive. I feel like I'm being smothered in false comforts, and I am suddenly back in the Tower, feeling that heavy torpor sapping the strength from my limbs, dragging me down to the floor.

When I finally come to, I find that I am on the floor. Zev is behind me, holding my wrists to my shoulders, and I am bent double with his weight on top of me. I seem to be hyperventilating, and my throat is raw. I relax everything, all of a sudden, and he almost squashes me. Maker, he's heavy. He lets go and leans around to look at my face. “What happened?” I ask.

“Your eyes went very far away, and then you began to scream. You were going to hurt yourself, so I put you on the floor.”

My hands are shaking. “Thank you.”

I stand, and see that my daggers are sticking out of the bed. I close my eyes as my stomach rolls. “I have to leave. Now.” I grab my weapons and am half-way out the bedroom door when there is a knock on the main door to the suite.

I yank it open to find six guards in the hallway. They all exchange glances, then look at me. I see Alistair, off to one side, looking concerned. “There was a lot of screaming,” he says. “Everyone in the garden heard it.”

“It's too much, Alistair, get these guards off me, I have to leave, this place is too soft, I feel like I'm suffocating. Maker, Zev, get me outside, get me out!” The guards all back away hastily as my voice spirals upwards in panic, but I lose my mind before I can make it there.

I wake again with a cool breeze on my face. Someone is carrying me, and my head aches blindingly. “You are awake, _kadan_.” I heave a sigh of relief.

“Okay Sten, put me down, please.” Once on my feet, I straighten out my armour and look around. Zev, Alistair, Sten, Skanda, Leliana, Wynne, Oghren, Shale... Everyone but Morrigan and the Feddics. I cover my face with my hands. “Sorry about that. Uh... I don't seem to be cut out for palace life.”

Camp is different without Bodahn there, without Morrigan's constant sarcasm. It's not the same. Nothing will ever be the same. Zev and I pitch our tent far from the others and I beg off dinner to turn in early. Skanda flops down outside to guard me. After a time, Zev joins me, and I cling to him desperately, still shaking.

“Tell me,” he whispers. Somewhere in the middle of it, I lose focus as I become more aware of the fact that he is pressed so tightly against me; the thread of what I am trying to say snaps completely when he begins to kiss the corner of my jaw.

All the fear from when I thought that I had lost him crashes in on me, and suddenly there is far, far too much clothing in the way. I trace every line of his tattoos with my tongue. His hands are everywhere, his strong, familiar, roughened hands, and I am whimpering, shaking with the need to have as much of his skin against mine as I can possibly manage.

I sit up, rising to my knees above him, and he sits up with me. I see the look in his eye change, darken, when he sees my face, and he growls. He pulls me toward him by the hips, and I sit heavily in his lap. He angles me forward and pulls me onto him so quickly, I have no time to adjust. Ordinarily I would have to muffle my cry in his shoulder, but I've done so much screaming in the last two days that, though my breath is strong enough for it, my throat will only allow a strangled squeak to escape.

“Ah...” he laughs, “That is new.”

My voice refuses to work at all, after that. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, my legs around his hips, and the way he moves against me has me bucking and thrashing like a wild thing, but he doesn't let go of me, not for an instant. Soon I am helplessly tangled in him, my hand in his hair, my arm around his neck, my breasts crushed to his chest, and I realize he is holding to me just as fast as I am to him.

This dawning truth snatches my breath away, and I shudder against him, my silent moan sighing in his ear.

He is whispering to me again, and I am completely undone. “_Mia bella ragazza... cara dolce... sempre accanto a te... sempre solo con te... Withiel mia..._”

He rolls his hips in a way he never has before, and I find myself tumbling backward as my back arches tight as a bowstring. He follows me, laying atop of me, his searing kisses all over my face, my neck, and then his tongue is in my mouth, and I have never felt _anything_ more incredible than him, right here, right now, this moment. As the heat within me expands, ignites, and ripples outward, I am silently sobbing his name.

I may be on my back, but I barely touch the ground as he pulls me upward, my skin slides along his, I feel the flex of his stomach against mine, and I shudder for him, for him, my deadly, beautiful assassin, my lover, my love, my everything.

We lie in a tangled heap for a very long time, catching our breath. At last, he disentangles himself and curls around me, nibbles at the earring, his earring, in my ear. I run my fingers through his tangled hair.

“Zev,” I whisper, for this is all I can do now.

“Mmm?”

“Tell me again about the house in Antiva.”

I can feel his smile against my neck as he turns his lips to my ear, and begins to whisper.


	13. Reclaiming What is Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have come back from Antiva to reclaim my place, and find another trying to usurp it. It is clear that he feels for her, but the jealousy, it cannot stand. I am trying to be patient, but I find myself needing to come up with clear explanations that he will understand. Unfortunately for him, he keeps forcing my hand, causing me the need to lay my claim upon her in more and more obvious ways. And Withiel, my sweet Withiel, she is so innocent to all of this struggle on her behalf. If the mage causes me to tip my hand to her... I shall kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **author notes:**  
> **b:** Rhion was begging me to see more Wings, and as i prevaricated, she offered to do some fic for me in exchange. so, liking this series a lot but being stuck on it, i showed her a scene (the withiel pov that happens in the next post), and said i figured there'd be some jealous!anders and possessive!zev in here somewhere, but i'm not so good at writing that kind of thing. so... she kinda took it and ran. this... is what happened... and... i hate to say it, but it's all natural progression. sorry if we hurt your brain. ^.^
> 
> **Rhion:** *sigh* Nothing is ever simple! I was thinking 'oh hey, maybe a little smex scene or something' yeah. No. BIIIIIG consequence of that offer. I now live in Zev's head. Well, Withiel's Zev's head. And as a result, I'm probably gonna go and go all Zev POV on Making Our Own Destiny. Dammit.

She sits, staring at me; such eyes she gives me now. To think I was so lost without her, but how lost was she without me? For a time, I dreamed of how this would go: she would fall into my arms – and yes, she did – and now, the next day, it should be better, yes? It is not, for now she sits there, in that chair, a plate of apple cores at her elbow, looking at me. Nothing more.

"_Cara_." For a moment I wonder if that is my voice, but who else would speak now? "I've returned to you." Aie, I could do better than this, yes? It is apparent I am here, yet I say something so trite? She deserves more than this of me surely.

_“Are you asking me what would happen between you and me?”_

_He nods, sitting back a little and leaning against the table. “In part, yes.”_

_She doesn't hesitate. “We'd be over. I'm sorry. I know it's kind of mean, and it wouldn't be so easy as that... It would hurt, I won't deny it. But... you knew from the start that I belong to him.”_

I play back those words she told that mage, and they should bolster me. They do not. She belongs to me yes; I must show her this. I _need_ to show her, but she sits there, staring at me, not saying a word, and this shall not do. Making the only gesture I know that she will understand, I cross the short distance – yet it is an ocean – to my Withiel and reach out, wrapping my pinky around hers. That seems to end her silence, and she shivers once, leaning towards me as a sunflower to the sun.

That is all I need for the dam to break. That single sign, that small gesture, it is the thing I need to show me that I am forgiven my trespasses. There is no forgiveness for me to give to Withiel; there was never anything to forgive. She turned to someone when she was in pain – pain I caused.

Cupping her cheek, I look down into her eyes. “Ah, _cara mia_, you are so lovely, you drive a man to distraction.”

“I missed you,” she whispers. There is a tiny hitch in her breathing, her eyes drifting closed at just this small caress.

Smoothing my thumb over her chin, I tug on her arm with my other hand, bidding her to stand. “And I you; let me show you how much, hmm?”

It is far too easy, the way she presses close, and I wonder how it is I deserve this. I must hide so she doesn't see my fear, my worry, so I kiss her. Lips part beneath mine, the taste of apple on her tongue that is eager and meeting me half way. Without intending to, my eyes close – I had wanted to watch her face relax as I kiss her – but the sensation of her lips, so soft and pliant, of a hand that tangles in my hair at the nape of my neck... I am helpless. Moaning I drag her even closer; I only want to drown in her arms, in this taste, in these tiny sounds she makes.

Part of me argues that this meeting should be exploratory, a thing of re-familiarizing myself with her body, and reminding her of my touch. However, I am ever-helpless to her charms. This tiny woman who has stood by me when others would abandon me, who has given me my freedom and a purpose, who has granted me the gift of _choice_ when I have had none before – she makes me shake. I, Zevran, assassin, murderer, lover, a friend to no one, am unable to be cold, to be collected and calculating when faced with Withiel Tabris. All that I am is swept away when I am seen through her eyes.

The term 'mad with desire' does not give adequate weight to the feeling of this small elf in my arms. Warring wishes do battle in my skull, and I clutch her tighter to me, so tight it must hurt, but she complains not at all. Withiel only whimpers, breath hitching and I can smell her. Smell the soap from her bath, the residue from much earlier pleasures, the unmistakable essence that is simply her, and it is a potent, heady concoction.

I am drunk as I tear my mouth from hers, my lips claiming the side of her neck, as I lean her backwards in my grasp, she is bowed like a drawn bow, hands clutching at my biceps. Every inch of me aches and is on fire, there are far too many barriers between our bodies, yet I can't seem to focus, all I can taste is her skin. That spot behind her ear that makes her tense right before she moans, it is sweet with sweat, and I drag my tongue to the outer shell of her ear, tugging on the earring there with the tip of my tongue, licking it before wrapping my lips around the small piece of jewellery. I should drape her in gems, and ropes of silver and gold, but that is all I had to give her, my one true possession earned by my own hand.

“Zevran...” It is half plea, half demand, my name on her lips. It is a caress that only she can give me: my name, myself, my being as she sees me. A wealth of meaning in that single word: those two syllables that make me a man and not a slave.

Shuddering, my eyes clench tight, but she can't see it, is lost to the sensation of my mouth on her delicate ear, to the pleasure of my teeth nipping at the tip of that sensitive organ. She is straddling my thigh, and even through the material of our trews I can feel the heat, the wetness that has spread. Truly, only I have been allowed this. Withiel is trembling against me, trusts me implicitly because she _chose_ to trust me so long ago and has never been able to give it up, no matter how I've failed her.

Other than Withiel, no one has ever chosen to trust me; it is an honour... and a burden.

I have to lock my jaw, otherwise I fear a howl would escape at this. She could break me with a single gesture, a single word, a single touch. By rights, she could push me away, send me fleeing, and yet she is needy, clinging to me as if I am all that supports her. To her, I have to be impervious, unstoppable, and knowledgeable, yet she also needs me to be myself. How can she not see my weakness, my fear? I am but a man, ill-equipped to be someone's strength and protector. Yet here I am, here I cling to her as she clings to me, devouring the line of her throat and now her mouth once more, and I have had to learn how to stand firm. The time where I could turn back has long since passed; there are no other options, and I have had to learn how to commit myself to a single thing.

The sweet taste of apples reminds me that if I have to tie myself to one thing, one person, that she is worth it, even as I am not.

Flesh, I need her flesh; I need her skin against mine. I need Withiel bare before me, stretched out, a living goddess given form and substance. My hands only sluggishly answer my commands, one tugging at her tunic, the other unbuckling the belt that binds it close to her waist. That breaks through the fog Withiel has been swamped with, that feeling of drowning I always see in her dazed eyes, and I feel her finally, _finally_ touching me. She is mapping my shoulders, my back, my waist, twisting the materiel of my own tunic, just as I am attempting to divest her of hers. The portion of my brain that speaks of logic tells me that I must part from my Withiel to make things easier, so that I can rid us both of all the obstacles between us.

We are so starved; the early morning's activities were not enough. _This_ is not enough. Impatience flares in me, and with hands that shake so much that Withiel should notice – of course she does not, she never seems to notice my varied flaws – I flip a blade out from where it nestles in the small of my back, along the spine. With deft precision, I cut away her clothes; my frenzied state of pure need should make me sloppy, but not even rebellious nerves would allow me to make a misstep and cause physical harm to her, not for anything. Once the blade's work is done, I re-sheath it, so that I am free to run my hands over her skin, her gloriously, lusciously pale and bare skin.

Slowly I sink to my knees, my mouth taking a downward path along Withiel as she remains standing, my hands as greedy as my mouth, traversing her chest, then her stomach. Fingers clutched at my hair; a distant thing, the sting of strands straining in that grip. Her arousal is intensifying, the scent thick and wet long before my mouth meets the begging place that is her sex. With a growl I lap at her folds, the burst of musk flowing across my tongue, and I have to catch her as the strength to stand on her own flees. My head is clutched to her, hips undulating in an attempt to bring me closer. I can do nothing but oblige, _want_ nothing more than to give her exactly what she wants.

I apply no art to the tasting of her sex' I am truly a mad thing, thinking only of wanting more, more, and even more. Every last thing she can give me, every last sound, keen, breathy sigh, and _that_, that broken sob as I tongue and kiss and suck at her pearl, before swirling my tongue to her entrance. That wetness, it is thick and fills my starving mouth – wine is nothing. No drink, no food, no mere sustenance could fill me the way this does. Covering her sex from the folded rosebud of her clit to the clasping opening, I suck and lick until I am dizzy from the need for air. Somewhere above, Withiel is hunched over my kneeling form, curled around me as much as she can while I hold her quaking body upright and to me.

A slim hand works itself free of my hair, slipping into the back of my tunic, touching my too-hot skin. I am blazing, like a fire, with nothing to put me out. A thread of worry comes that I will consume Withiel; that is what I want to do: to drown, to let go entirely. Gasping I pause in my assault on her sex, resting my forehead against her rounded, gently muscular hip. In my moment of inattention, Withiel is on me, tearing at my clothes as I had torn at hers. Assisting how I can, I yank the shirt over my head, nearly hard enough to tear the collar. Just as nimble digits met the laces of my trews I regain enough sense to grab her and stand, sweeping her up like a child, legs wrapped high around my waist, arms locked around my neck, hands in my hair immediately. The moisture of her orgasm coats my abdomen with her musk, a perfume that I want to bathe in every day for the rest of my life.

A bed, oh, how I long for a true bed to lay her on, not the rough box pallet she has made in this tower room, to be as much camp as possible. If I had a kingdom beyond Withiel, I would give it all for a bed, a soft place to take her until my ears ring with her screams, until her voice is gone. But I work with what I have, and the only important thing is the players on this stage, not the setting itself. Laying her down, I brace my knees on the edge of the bed, holding my weight free of her writhing body so she can return to pushing my trews down my hips. Not a moment after I am bared, I can wait no longer, the vital body part needed free of impediment. Grasping one of her knees, holding it close to my hip, opening Withiel up, I slam home, no gentle teasing, no easing into her wetness. Merely, I have to be _inside_ her, to crawl so far into her that I no longer have to face the world, and only live in hers. If I had thought I was a blazing fire before, now I am hot as the sun where I am buried in her; the muscles clamp down on me, not wanting to relinquish their hold.

Nails score my chest then my back as I hold myself deep and still, face falling to her shoulder and panting. There is no control left, if there ever had been any. She is whimpering and thrashing, saying my name in strangled gasps, begging me to move, to do _something_, as if I am torturing her, holding still like this, buried to the hilt, and she moves like wild sea swells under me. Teeth sink into my shoulder where it joins my neck; a thick twist of tattoo would be a stark thing against her pink lips and white, white teeth, if I could watch this from the outside. I can feel my eyes roll back in my head, the sharpness bordering on pain and pleasure, a thin line that would be so easy to cross but isn't.

Hoarsely words are pulled from my tight throat, _“Cara mia, Withiel, mi ragazza dolce, amora mia.” _

She is sucking hard on the spot she has bitten, and it will bruise under the ink, but I want her to mark me. I want to mark _her_. Withiel's other leg wraps around me, her heel digging into the back of my thigh, forcing me to move with bucking hips and breasts crushed to my chest. I flex the muscles of my stomach, circling and grinding my hips to hers, rubbing her channel with my manhood, the friction delicious and agonizing. Framing her face with my hands, thumbs brushing along her cheeks, I inhale her moans, sucking them into my mouth as I kiss her without end. It is over far too quickly, our straining bodies locked together as they are, the boundless hunger not even close to sated by the flash of exploding completion.

Rolling onto my back with her in my arms, I swear to her, “I shall not leave you again, Withiel.”

She smiles, and it is like I am born anew. “Promise?”

“I promise, _cara_.” I pray to anything that may listen that I should never have to break this vow. She trusts me too much, takes what I say as fact, never to be questioned. If only I could believe in myself the way she believes in me.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

The merchant and noble classes, the world over, are the same: they all love their parties, where they flaunt their wealth, and more deals are forged here than in honest trade meetings. Reputations are made and broken in one swoop at these fêtes, and if Ferelden were a more interesting place, there would be assassins amongst the party-goers. Excluding myself of course. I smirk into my wine glass.

Withiel is talking with some dwarven artisan about the state of the Vigil's walls, bluntly ignoring a Bann who has been trying to gain her attention for the last several minutes. My Withiel, she is still not fond of humans, with good cause, and I could never blame her for it. Mostly, I only bear them some distaste, if they are worth it. Generally, people are simply the same, in one way or another, when it comes down to the meat of the matter.

“I've always been curious.” Anders, who has come up on my left rather indirectly finally speaks, forcing me to acknowledge his presence.

“Hmm? Have they no saying here that curiosity killed the cat?” Strangely, I rather like this mage, in my own way; I can see the appeal of his nature, and so he and I have settled into a truce... of sorts.

“Well last I heard, satisfaction brought it back,” he counters, arms crossing.

Waving a hand at him, taking another sip while continuing to watch my Withiel so animated and lively, I concede the point. “Say on.”

“See, here's the thing,” he begins, stepping before me, as though he is trying to block my view of my elf. “I've always wondered what the difference is between a murderer and an assassin.”

_Hmm, he doesn't pull punches; amusing._ Granting the mage my undivided attention, I smile. Of course, it isn't a very nice smile, but that is far from my point. “Ah, it is a very tricky subject you touch on. Fortunately, I am well versed in it, and should be well able to answer any questions you may have.”

“If you're so well versed, that must mean you're a murderer and an assassin.” Clever boy that he is, Anders must think he has laid a good trap for me.

_Amusing, so amusing you are dear Anders._ It is all I can do to not laugh in his face. "Assassin? Yes. Once, I would have had to rebuke you on calling me a murderer, but I have done my fair share of murdering..." Leaning to the side as I say this, I remember what I have done in the not-so-distant past, for her.

"Well, what's the difference?” He manoeuvres to block my view once more, and oh, he is much too obvious.

Sighing, I take a moment to think. "An assassin does not have any malice in mind for the mark. There is no grudge held against them; they are nothing more than a goal, and so malice is not needed. There is no personal investment in the deed, while murder is _very_ personal in nature... Murder is something done in retribution, anger, fear, lust, possessiveness, even love perhaps. Personal things, yes?"

"Ah... but who would you have cause to murder?" Now, finally, he may get the hint, and falls neatly into the trap that _I_ have laid for _him_.

I cut a sharp glance toward him as I step around him neatly, going to Withiel, as I have longed for since this dreadful party began, and press my goblet into his hands. "Anyone who gets in my way."

The passable musicians have struck up a tune, and the drunken revellers are all pairing off. Sliding up behind Withiel, I lay my hand on the small of her back. It is too small a touch for what I need most, but it will do. She turns to me, that surprised, sweet smile that is reserved only for me lighting her face.

I take her hand. “Ah, _cara mia_, I believe that they are playing a song, and there must be a dance. We should not disappoint them, no?”

I can feel Anders' eyes as a heavy weight on me, making the space between my shoulder blades itch. It is true that he is likeable enough, and he helped Withiel for which I am grateful – but he should remember to not overstep his bounds. Withiel is mine; the cheek she presses to my shoulder and the happy glow she emits shouts it to the world. Let Anders watch, so long as it never goes beyond that. I protect what is mine, and keep it for myself.

The glint of gold from an earring, the white alabaster skin, the thick ebony fall, those shimmering sapphires, and that precious smile, are the only things that have ever truly belonged to me. The mantle of contentment is only slightly marred by the glower sent my way, as I step lightly back and forth with Withiel to the tune played. She is relaxed in this, and I know her eyes must be closed, letting me lead her so that she may block out the world. I am a place where she can hide from all these people, all these needy, demanding people. They are so burdensome, coming to her as if she can fix everything and anything – as if she would even _want_ to – but her heart is large, so she cares, and never wants another to go what she has gone through.

The song ends and another is started, and I detect a hint of movement, Anders working his way through the crowd, aiming for Withiel and I. Mainly for Withiel; he wishes to take my elf from me, and while I have been tolerant – for her sake, not for his; most _certainly_ not for his – no one may dare to cut in where they are unwanted. A sneer demands to be let loose, but I refuse, spinning in time to the music, delicately guiding our steps to somewhere more secluded. No one shall miss us if we slip out for a time.

Cautiously, I check, and spy Anders still weaving his way amongst the dancing couples and amend that, to: no one but Anders will miss our presence.

Even that will serve a purpose.

“Where are we going?” She asks, hooking her arm through mine, leaning into my side as we walk.

“For a little seclusion.” A grin tugs at my mouth, unbidden.

For a moment she is confused, her brows drawn tight. “But we're far from our room...”

Judging that we are far enough from the main hall and its occupants, I turn on her suddenly, making her back up a few steps, crowding her, until she meets the resistance of the wall. Leaning forward, one arm above her head, the other I wrap around her waist, yanking her close, forcing her to stand on her toes as I swoop in for a kiss. Lips open under mine, the tiny, surprised – more than a hint aroused – gasp swallowed up as I invade her mouth with my tongue. Growling my triumph, I break away after a too-brief kiss, and turn her to face the wall. A shiver traverses the length of her body, and I'm lifting her skirts as I hear her panting. I know she is biting her lip, hoping to hold in the multitude of sounds she tends to make. That is not what I want; besides, mostly no one will hear her over the music and talking.

Trailing my fingers up and down the back of a thigh, over the swell of her bottom, I curl over her to whisper in her ear. “Ah, _cara mia_, you shake so...”

“Someone could find us, could hear me...” Small hands make fists where they rest against the wall.

It is only a concern, not an actual protest. She trusts me too much to ever doubt that I would keep her from prying eyes.

“Tch, over that raucous clamor? I think not.” I scoff into her neck before biting down, bringing blood to the surface. It is a mark that will fade in minutes; I've never left a visible mark on her, only my scent, and those deep under her skin.

I slip my hand over her backside, stroking it slowly, then down between her thighs. She is soaked already, even through the linen of her underthings. Pushing aside the damp fabric, my fingers delve into her wetness and she sucks in a sharp breath that comes out in a whimper. Right here, I shall take her, where anyone fool enough to come into this hallway could see us. There are few so stupid, so I don't worry for it. Plying her pearl until her hips wiggle against my hand, urging and begging, those mewling whimpers gain in volume. Just as I can see that she is on the verge of release, I am pulling myself free of my leggings, and moving the crotch of her panties further aside to make more room. With an arch and short scream, she comes as I enter her, and I hiss into the back of her neck.

Muscles ripple and pull me in deeper, heat like no other scalding my length in pleasure. Thrusting with and against her, I move one hand around under her skirt, stroking the side and inside of her thigh, as well as her sex, in time to my deep plunges into her tightness. It feels beautiful and perfect, each plunge of my hips meeting hers with measured force. I forget where we are, I forget everything outside of Withiel, who is straining to thrust back against me, her head hanging as she moans in a way that would put any practised whore to shame. Planting my face into the side of her neck, we rock back and forth in time, unaware of anything beyond each other.

Or, at least, I am mostly unaware.

My glance is covered by my position, and I see the expected. Anders, watching, fists clenched, hands glowing with faint light. Withiel gives a particularly sharp cry, arching once more as she comes again, and I grunt, still watching Anders from the corner of my eye. The mage looks ill and angry. Enraged. Defeated, even.

That is more than good, it is _wonderful_. Almost as good as Withiel, sagging against the wall, face turned away from the direction I am looking, hitching little moans, quivering muscles massaging me. Combined with the knowledge that I've shown my claim in no uncertain terms and the bliss of being able to take my Withiel, bring her ecstasy as she brings me – I fall over the edge, laughing as I growl.

I am exultant, jubilant – _triumphant_ – as I throw my head back, releasing a strangled cry, and then pin Anders with a look, teeth bared at him. Slowly I pull away from Withiel, straightening her skirts, still locking gazes and wills with Anders. He _will_ acknowledge which of us has her. He _must_.

I will kill him if he doesn't.

She straightens slowly, dazed as she begins to face me, still unaware of our spectator. “Oh... I can't believe we just did that in the hallway!” she breathes.

Her giggle is charming, and I have already hidden away the possessive beast I am. I smile down at her, smoothing her hair back into place. “Oh yes _cara_, I fully intend to make these halls ring with your voice.”

Withiel blushes and laughs again, hiding her face in my chest, arms going around my waist. “As long as we don't get caught by the nobles; that would be political disaster.” She never wavers, never demurs, the thought that she could say no to me never enters her mind; I say it shall be so, and so it shall be. Such trust she places in me.


	14. Cornered

Zev, my heart, my life, he finally returned to me. I knew I’d felt hollow without him, but I hadn't realized how he'd taken all the colour of the world with him until he came back. I spend all my time just hurrying through my day, trying to finish things, go places, get things done, so I can make room in my schedule to be impossible to locate. They feel like stolen moments, but I am always aching for them, every second in between. He laughs sometimes, at my intensity, my quiet desperation.

I think he's happy to be home. So am I.

Maker, he's been helpful. Now that he's back, I’m working on paving the way for Nathaniel to take over the Arling, since it would have been his, by all rights, anyway. Ever since he met his sister in the marketplace, he's been a good friend, and has become the best ally I could ever have hoped for. He cares, so much, what happens here; it only seems right that I leave him in charge when I go to Antiva with Zev.

And I will, there's no doubt about that; it's only a matter of time. I just have to get Nathaniel to the point where I am satisfied with his leadership abilities, his fighting capability, and the other nobles' confidence in him.

I’m leaving the Keep. I know this, and my time here is numbered only in months. Maybe six. I’m starting to look at things as finite, instead of how I had been going along, day to day. Because of this, many things have been eating at me, things left unfinished.

I can't lie; it's been really hard to try and push Anders out of my thoughts, especially after that spectacular night in the kitchen, almost a month ago now. I try, though. I’ve been resisting him so hard.

Maker, he doesn't make it easy, though. There was a day last week, when he came into the kitchen and stood _right next to me_, not just near, but actually almost _touching_ me, so close I could feel his body heat; I could smell the lightning on him, and it went straight to my head. I had to grab onto the table because my knees tried to give out with the sudden rush of body–memory, and I know, I _know_ what he saw in my face when I looked up at him, because he... He did it on purpose, of course. Maker. His eyes darkened, and he _smiled_, that smirk I know way too well, the one that always says, 'oh yes, I know you'll be at my door in a day or two', but... I didn't go. Of _course_ I didn’t go.

I went to Zev, instead, and spent hours in his arms, obliterating all my traitorous feelings, drowning them by covering myself in his scent. Anders' presence has sent me running back to Zev more times than I care to admit, at this point. It's only getting worse, the more he manages to get next to me. He’s my second-in-command – that’s a lot of opportunity, and a lot of me having to work at being calm. Being faithful was _never_ so difficult. What is _wrong_ with me?

I look up as the door to my office opens and closes, quietly, and find Anders leaning against it, looking at me intently. I pause. The look on his face... I feel a blush crawl up my neck, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. _Maker's breath_. I feel like a mouse before the cat. “A– Anders?” I lick my lips. “What's going on? Is everything all right?” I lay my quill aside as he stalks forward and puts his hands on the desk, leaning over it, nearly nose-to-nose with me. I stand my ground.

“No. No, it's not all right; you know it isn't.”

“I– We talked about this.”

He smirks. “I know. And I could have walked away if I thought you had done the same... but you haven't.”

I stare at him, my heart in my mouth. What am I supposed to say to that? Now, here he is, leaning over the desk, so close I can feel his heat again, and it is making my head spin. “I... I have to.”

“You don't want to.” No lie. “Tell me you do,” he challenges. A slow smile spreads across his face as I hesitate, and I know it's that smile that's going to damn me.

“You– I– No. We can't–” I stutter. I have to get out of here, quick. I stand up abruptly, and this puts him at eye-level with me, the way he's leaned over the desk. Everything in my skin tells me to lean in, to close that distance, feel that spark on my tongue again, and for a moment, I can almost taste the lyrium. My heartbeat picks up, and I kick my chair behind me, pushing it out of the way. I circle around the end of the desk as he stands up, but I'll have to pass him to get to the door, and my self-control is rapidly disintegrating. I cannot afford that, not by a long stretch; the very thought makes me feel close to panic, but I suddenly don't trust myself to go near him. I take a deep breath and school my face, trying to call up a pleasant neutral like what I use with Nathaniel. He just folds his arms over his chest and watches me, amused.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he says, and takes a step toward me. I always stand my ground; I can’t let him back me up in my own office... but I’m running out of options. My breathing speeds, and I struggle to maintain the shreds of my decency. He comes closer. “Tell me you haven't been thinking about me.” He is so close now, I have to look up at him, and I swallow. Why can't I say anything? I can't lie; the evidence is all over me. The only thing I can do is flee, and he's too close for that, he's between me and the door. I'm desperate. I back up, but there's only so much ground to give, and I fetch up against the wall. He reaches forward, takes me by the waist, and buries his face in my neck. “Tell me you don't care,” he whispers.

His breath is hot, washing across my throat, his voice a purr in my ear, and I am crumbling. I put my hands up, I mean to push him away, but I am touching his chest, and knowing what is under all this fabric, the hard muscle and the scars I know very, very well, my hands just kind of slide downward on their own. “Anders... Stop, I can't–” I whimper; I mean to say that I can't do this, but he interrupts me.

“Exactly my point,” he says, and turns my face to catch my mouth with his own.

I struggle, but somehow all that does is push me against him more. I step to the side, but it only serves to give him room to press his thigh between mine. I whimper helplessly as his storm invades my mouth, raising the small hairs on the back of my neck. I lift my hands to his face, meaning to pry him off me, but then I forget what I’m about when he rolls his hips forward, stealing my breath, and the traitorous things grab onto him instead, tangling in his hair.

He releases my mouth at last, in favour of licking the outside of my ear as his hands slide up my sides. “Tell me to leave. Tell me no again, Withiel,” he murmurs, dropping his mouth to kiss the side of my neck.

I am completely breathless. It's been... I realize I know, right down to the sodding hour, and I wonder how I was ever fooling myself that I could just walk away from him, just like that. My eyes flutter closed as his sparking kisses lay a line of fire all the way down my shoulder, his hands across my ribs coming up against the hot line under my breasts. “I can't–” I breathe, still struggling to fight, still not able to finish my sentence because he knows exactly how to touch me, because I’ve been fighting all this shameful desire anyway. He's always been able to bring it out of me, no matter how hard I try to push it down.

“Heh. I knew it,” he says, smug, and I shiver as his hands wrap around my sides and travel down my back. He kisses me passionately as he wraps his arms around my waist and turns with me, pushing me back toward my desk, and I dance backward on my toes out of sheer self–preservation, until I fetch up against the end of it. Reaching behind me, he sweeps whatever is there onto the floor as he tugs my breeches down over my hips. Distractedly, I register that they are already unlaced, and wonder when that happened.

I’m forgetting what I’m about. I’m forgetting why I meant to protest, as the heat of his body, of his kiss, strips away my ability to think coherently. Something insistent continues to rail at me, this is _wrong_, I shouldn't be here, I shouldn't be wanting this, I shouldn't be _allowing_ this, but I care. I care about him, and I have liked his company, his touch; he is distracting me with it again, just as he always has.

His hands are hot against my skin as he slides them up under my tunic, and I gasp, breaking the kiss at last. He laughs, wrapping his fingers around my nipples and causing a burst of fiery pleasure that ripples out over my skin and has me arching my back, fingers twitching ineffectually against his robe. He's not going to make it easy for me, oh no. This is revenge for lying to both of us. “Anders–” I gasp, the last of my reservations flying from my mind. Somehow my pants are missing completely, my boots tossed to the side, his robe is open, I don't know what I’ve been doing with my hands.

He grabs me by the hips and pushes me up on the desk as I scramble upward, missing the lightning already. Kissing him has always been my favourite part, much to his amusement, and I’ve denied myself – both of us – so long, I’m humiliated by how hungry I am for it, for him. He catches my mouth as he pulls me closer, and thrusts inside me twice at once, his tongue wrapping around mine and his hips meeting mine swiftly; I wrap my legs around his waist and moan into his mouth, shaking. I scrabble at his robe, trying to gain enough purchase to pull myself up, but he solves that problem for me rather quickly, wrapping an arm around my chest to help support the weight of my upper body.

I finally get one of my arms hooked up around the top of his shoulder, my hand plunging down the neck of his robe to get to his skin, my fingers curling against the heat of him. I arch toward him, starved and desperate, whimpering with little screaming noises clawing at the back of my throat. He swallows them all, tucking a hand under my hips to brace me against the hard thrust of his own. Dimly, I realize he's not really using his magic, this time; he can't help the way he tastes, to me, I know that much, but the rest has been just all him, and for some reason, that makes me crave him all the more.

I am too breathless for kissing anymore, and I break away, holding tightly to his shoulder, my hand curled into a fist around a handful of his robe. I bury my face in his neck, and he smells like _Anders_ – wind and lightning, elfroot, sunlight and _him_ – something I didn't know I was missing until he was gone from me, until he stood next to me again and reminded me, until he backed me up against the wall and forced me to admit it. I kiss his throat, my tongue darting out to taste his skin, and he moans quietly into my shoulder.

I feel myself getting closer and closer to the edge, shamefully quickly, and I begin to sob, bucking wildly against him, meeting his frantic pace. I am losing control of my voice as the fires rise higher and higher still, crying out desperately. He tries to silence me, turning his face to claim my mouth again, and I scream – actually _scream_, Maker help me – as the fire sears me in shuddering waves rippling out from the centre of my being. He groans, sounding almost agonized, his rhythm faltering a moment before he picks it up again, faster, harder, and I sob again, clinging to him tightly, losing the kiss once more.

I gasp for air, breathless and keening, and he suddenly makes a little strangled noise and then moans softly, almost tenderly, suddenly folding me in his arms as his rhythm falters all together. A shudder runs through him and he buries his hand in my hair, turning my face up to kiss me again. I can't help but respond, still throbbing with the intensity of what just happened between us, my hands rising of their own accord to stroke his cheeks.

“Anders...” I whisper, breaking free, at last. I look up into his eyes, and my heart burns with faithlessness. I could have just walked away, just cut it off, just been done, no matter how it maddened me, and yet not felt horrible for it. But now, looking up at him, he has done something to me, and I realize I did the same thing to him, maybe before he even came in here. “It'll end in tears,” I warn, still cupping his face in my hands.

He shakes his head ruefully. “It couldn't have been any other way,” he says, capturing my mouth again, and I melt into him guiltily, winding my arms around his neck.

I pull back again. “What do you want from me?” I ask, looking away.

He rests his forehead against mine, his thumb stroking over my cheekbone. “I _know_ you know how I feel,” he murmurs, making my eyes hurt. “I think you know what I want.”

I close my eyes, rubbing my nose along his, wishing there were a choice here that would make everyone happy. “You want me to stay with you; maybe you even want me to leave him. I won't. I can't. So, what now?”

He pulls back, frowning. “Stop pretending that it means nothing, that you _feel nothing_, that it's so easy for you to just walk away from me. Stop lying, not just to him, not even just to me, but to _yourself_.” He takes my face in his hands, making me look up at him. “_Admit it_, Withiel. I could feel it in you, just now; you do want me. Part of you _wants_ to stay. Your mouth is always saying no, but what you _do_, what you ask for with your kiss, with your hands, doesn't match.”

I pull from his hands, beginning to feel dirty for what has just happened. “What good would it do either one of us, to speak of such things? I’m going to Antiva. I _will_ be leaving. It's only a matter of time.”

He steps away from me, pulling his robe closed, and I cross my legs – far, far too late – looking down. His voice begins to take on a hard edge. “It _matters_. It matters to _me_. Why is it so hard to say? You've confessed every pain you've ever had to me, but not this? You can't tell me that it hurts to walk away? That you don't really _want_ to?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, sealing in the threat of tears. “I told you that night, when he returned, that it would hurt me. Did you think I changed my mind about that?” My voice quavers, and I grit my teeth. I shake my head, steeling myself, pushing down the lump in my throat. “You and I would _never_ have worked, Anders. No matter what you and I may or may not feel, we weren't _meant_ to be more than this.”

I slip down the side of the desk and tug my pants on with trembling fingers, but he cannot let it go. “Just tell me _why_, then. Just tell me this one thing, where I went wrong. You say we never would have worked. So, if not for your history, why _him_, and not _me_?”

I sigh. “Come on, Anders. Isn't it more than obvious? It's because you're–”

“A _shem_?” he finishes for me, his face darkening. He looks like he's about to yell at me, but this is so ridiculous, I start laughing, and he blinks, startled.

“A _Warden_, you idiot. I want _children_, and Wardens have such a low chance of breeding, that together, it would be practically a miracle if anything happened at all. Maker's breath. After all this time, you think _that_, of all things, is the thing matters? Maybe at first, but you've eclipsed that by just being _Anders_. I ought to be offended.” I sigh, going back to him. He just doesn't understand; there's no one else who could ever keep me safe, who could ever keep me. When it comes down to it, on the roof of Fort Drakon, I would have mourned for Anders, but for Zevran... _I would turn the world inside out._

I try to make my voice as matter-of-fact as possible. “Listen. Fine: no lies. You're right. You've been driving me mad just by standing too close to me. Every time you come into the room, I’m blinded by thoughts of things that have passed between us. Much to my chagrin, I desire you, desperately, frequently.” I lay my hands against his chest, looking up at him, and soften a bit. “In a perfect little world, I could have both of you, and all would be well, but we do not live in that world, and I _can't belong to two_.”

He watches me as I back away, as I realize that he is no longer between me and the door. The urge to flee becomes oppressive. “This can _not_ happen again,” I say, and I can tell by the look on his face that he doesn't believe I mean that, not at all, because I've said that before. “We are finished, Anders,” I whisper, desperately _needing_ him to believe me, to back down. Maker, please have mercy. “No more,” I repeat. I reach behind me, tugging open the door. I am standing in the doorway, eyes locked with his, and I cannot do anything else: I flee.

I must find Zev; I feel so disgusting, filthy! Oh, Maker, Anders, why did I let him corner me like that? I stop dead in the middle of the hallway. I want to scratch furrows in my face. For the first time _ever_, I _cannot_ go to Zev, and the knowledge hits me like a hammer to the chest; I literally stumble, doubling over.

_What... _

_...have I done?_

I switch directions abruptly and run for the baths; I can smell Anders _all over me_. My mouth still tingles from the lightning of his tongue. I want to scrub myself with sand until I bleed.

I am repulsive; I sicken myself. Zev is all I have ever wanted, the only one I have ever needed so much I cannot breathe when he is gone. I, who have never betrayed him, who have stood by him through everything: I have done _this_ to him. I have failed, so utterly, so horribly. Oh, Maker, I am a fallen woman.

Hastily, I strip and immerse myself in the first full tub I find, heedless of who may be watching. It is ice cold, but I do not care; I deserve it. All that matters now is trying to erase the corruption from my skin, even as I know that I can never lie to him, that he will somehow discover my treachery... and, oh, Andraste's tears, he'll think _less of me_ for it. He could leave me for such a crime... he would be right to do it... and I would die inside.

I am sullied... ruined... disgraced. I do not deserve him.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

Running errands for the Wardens is a pain, but necessary, so I am covered in trail dust, and sore. The horse I've been using has a gait like a sway-backed, cantankerous donkey. If this is the finest that Ferelden has to offer, no wonder nobody rides, as this particular horse would be of more use in Alistair's soup pot. Thankfully, that is neither here nor there, and I bid a joyous farewell to the unlovable, stupid beast, leaving it in the negligent care of stable-boys. A bath, much deserved, is in order, followed by a happy visit with my Withiel.

I ignore all those I pass, making straight for the communal bathing room, not to be distracted by anyone. It is mostly empty but for the sound of someone frantically bathing, yet it isn't too disturbing; so I strip my clothes away, tossing them to a hamper and take a set of towels. Normally, I would have gone to our room to get my soap and a change of clothes, but I am too weary. Coming around the corner I stop abruptly, realizing who it is that I will be sharing the baths with. A trail of discarded clothes leads to the tub where Withiel is scrubbing herself hard enough to peel skin away.

Alarmed, I go to her, reaching into the frigid water, and yank her hand above the bath, forcing her to let go of the soap in her hand. There could be no reason for such a thing; why would she do this to herself? “_Cara?_” I lean down to touch her face and, though she recoils in panic, I smell it, just before I ask her what is wrong. _Lyrium_.

I feel as though someone has stabbed me in the kidneys and left me for dead.

Her blue eyes are wide, her face gone even paler than the temperature of her bath dictates. Bright blooms of shame colour her cheeks, mouth falling open to say something. I lay one trembling finger over her lips, preventing her from speaking, and haul her from the tub. I am angry, wounded, _murderous_. _How could she?_, should be my first thought. It isn't.

It is the pain that begs me to wonder why, _how_, it could have happened, what I have done to deserve such a thing from her hands. Yet, the shame, the pain, the shimmering anguish in her eyes, it tells me it was not her. Even if it had been, I couldn't blame her. I never could; not ever.

Withiel is too precious to ever blame her for things that are not truly her doing. I want to scrub that stench from her body, to erase it, to cling to her, shaking, and beg her not to leave me for that _mage_. Not that she would, but I am _terrified_ of it. There could be a chance, and what do I have that he does not? _Everything_ precious is taken from me, and there is _nothing_ more dear to me than her. Without her, I would be _nothing_; there would be no more will left for anything at all. My hope, my life, my vitality would be sucked away.

Her hands scrabble against my chest, and she struggles – both to get closer and to get away. My heart begs me, pleads with me to be soft, to be gentle with her, to pray that she will understand how precious she is to me, and to show her, but that isn't what _she_ needs. There is guilt, horror and shame all over her, but I can do _nothing_ until she is free of his stink.

One of the larger tubs is empty, and I turn the spigots to hot, as hot as either of us can take it. Steam rises up as I hold her pinned to my side, her shoulders heaving, body covered in goose-flesh. I take one of the wash-cloths and a bar of soap, stepping into the tub, and hoist her one-armed to stand beside me. Scalding water flows over our feet, rising, and she is wincing, ankles turning red, but she sits, and I know she needs to feel boiled clean. I have been there often enough, myself, to understand this.

With economical movements I lather the cloth and wash her from head to toe, taking care to delve into her body with only the cloth, to not touch her with my bare hand. Usually, I would, but she will not tolerate it right now. Her face though, I cannot bear to touch it with the roughness of such a thing, and I toss the soiled – more mentally than physically – item over the side. Tenderly, I wash her face, massaging the soap into her flesh, and splash water over it repeatedly.

The entire time she stares at me, as broken as I've ever seen her.

I will _kill_ that mage for this, for the _sight_ of her, like this; she is broken and listless and shamed. Has she not known enough shame in her life already? Must he add more to it?

Steeling myself, I give my own rage focus. Withiel needs me to. Once she is clean, her hair hanging down in dripping strands, shaking still, she attempts to say something once more, and again, I stop her. Just – not so gently as the first time. My hand locks in her hair, yanking her to me, hard, and my mouth crashes down on hers. I can taste a faint hint of lyrium, even still, and I _must_ erase it, for both our sakes. Snarling into her mouth, my tongue is merciless, plundering it, and my lips grind against hers. She whimpers, shaking like a leaf still, but I hear enough desire in it to know that what I am doing is what she _wants_ me to do, not just what she needs me to.

Pulling my mouth away, I go to her neck, tipping her head to one side, and bite down. She yelps at the sharp pain, hands going to my shoulders as I begin to suck, bringing the blood to the surface, knowing that there will be a mark left here later. It isn't enough. In the same spot, I bite down again; this time she keens in reply, and I move to another place, seeing the flower of red that precedes the purple of bruise. On both sides of her throat, I leave marks so deep that individual teeth indents should be seen later. Bending her backwards in the water, I rise up to my knees, the porcelain of the tub biting into me, just as I am biting into Withiel.

A path of bruises is left behind my mouth, and I lock onto a breast, only taking care to not be too cruel to her nipples. My other hand has not been idle, and it goes to her sex, thrusting two fingers in as she bows back further, crying out in pained desire. Muscles lock down around the intrusion, but I am far from done, my thumb searching for her pearl and rubbing it forcefully, my mouth reclaiming hers. Her legs are framing my thighs, bent as she is, backwards over the lip of the tub, and I can feel the quivering as I finger her roughly, demanding response and getting it. Nails dig into my chest, fingers flexing as she is helpless to resist responding to what I do.

Farther and farther I bend her, until all that holds her from falling out of the tub onto her crown is my arm at her waist, and her legs hooked around my thighs. Rocking back on my haunches, my teeth sink into the soft layer of fat, over the muscle of her stomach. I shall cover her in my marks, I shall give her the punishment she is begging me for without words, but every bite, every bit of roughness lays into me as though it were my own body receiving pain. It costs; how it costs me. I do it for Withiel, to give her the absolution she requires, so she can forgive herself, and accept my forgiveness.

There isn't anything to forgive! But for her, she feels this way, and I have to do as I must. She will flee me otherwise, and that would be the end. I must be a beast that I have never been with her, for I have never once wished to remind her of suffering she had at hands other than mine.

So I am unrelenting, as brutal as I dare to be, ramming into her as I tilt her hips so she is impaled in one swift press. My hands lock on her hips, my grip cruel, pulling and pushing her as I pound in and out. It feels good, it feels horrible, and I have to hide my face in her neck as she sobs in my ear. She may not be able to walk; I don't think I can, this hurts too good. As the volume of her voice escalates, I can feel her clenching, rippling, pulling, squeezing walls, her struggling legs, heaving chest, and I kiss her once more. Her voice vibrates in the back of my throat, her air expelling in deep cries, and I inhale them, absorbing the pain for her. Withiel is flailing, not struggling, and I can feel that, in spite of how terrible this is, she is peaking, finding pleasure amongst the cleansing agony. Unable to stop myself I follow along after her, clutching her to me, so there is no escape for either of us, and I kiss her hard enough to draw blood from her bottom lip.

Gasping and shuddering, once I am through, I cling to Withiel, refusing to ever let go. “_Cara mia_ Withiel, no more... no more of this. Forget it.” Nuzzling at her tear covered cheeks, I plead with her as she sobs into my shoulder, as she holds so tightly to me. “Please, forget the deeds of the day. They are done, they are no more.”

“I– I don’t–” She is shivering, unable to hold my gaze.

“No more Withiel, it is done, it is _over_, we are fine.” I brush my mouth against the corner of her trembling lip. “I forgive you, think no more on it, _please_.”

She hides her face in my neck, her arms tightening almost painfully about my shoulders, and she gives me a tiny nod of assent. “Zev–”

“Shh, it is done, it is well.” I rock side to side with her in the cooling bathwater.

For her, I will do anything. A monster, a killer, a murderer... I have been these things for her. I have had to learn how to be brutal, and how to let things go, no matter the demands my heart makes. I should kill him – I want to, I _need_ to – but I won't. For her, I will suffer anything.


	15. Magebane

It has been days since the bath Withiel and I shared. In that time, I have not left her side even once, as she becomes panicky if I go near a door without her right behind me. So I have waited, and been patient; my anger has cooled. The rage has settled. I am calm inside – the hallmark that I wear as a cloak has seeped into my interior being.

I cannot simply lash about like a wild thing. I must be _calculated_. I also must be _careful_, for Withiel's sake. Between Anders and I, Withiel has been a pawn. No more. This is not a _game_ I play, and she is not a prize going to the winner. Anders seems to have forgotten that – _if_ he ever knew it. Then again, people like him, they don't understand the value of a person, the value of something being dear to the heart and soul.

And so I have waited, become calm. Withiel's fear and guilt have slackened enough for me to do this, and so I have left her in the hall with Varel and that new dwarf, Sigrun. She is safe there, especially from Anders, as I know where he has gone. His Taint-induced appetite demands that he eat frequently, and since he has just returned from a patrol, it must be gnawing at him like a ravenous beast.

So to the unofficial break-room off the side of the kitchens I go. There is always food ready to be eaten there, in the necessarily plentiful quantities for feeding Wardens. Casually I stride, unseeing beyond what I have in mind, the image of sorrowful sapphires locked in my mind's eye. I have been _tolerant_, and _understanding_, as that is how a 'good' man is supposed to be. A hero, when I was never meant to be such a thing.

But no more.

I pause near the door, hearing two people in the room; one is clearly Anders, as I had known it would be. Who the second person is will dictate how I approach this. There is a thunderous belch, and for a moment I smile. Oghren. With him in attendance, I need not be politic with the mage.

“Didn't your mother ever tell you that is disgusting?” Put upon, tired and bored, Anders snipes half-heartedly.

There is a long slurp, followed by another belch. “Naw, she's the one as taught me that it's bad manners if ya don't! Gotta show appreciation for fine drink!”

I remain in position, waiting until I am sure of how fully off-guard they both are. They must be relaxed. Then again, Oghren is always relaxed. Both men are quiet, and the sounds of eating and drinking resume.

Oghren, strangely, is the first to rekindle the conversation. “Eh, Sparklefingers. I got somethin' ta say, and ya better listen up, boy.”

“What?” Utensils click on a plate.

“I seen the way you been eyein' the Commander, and ya gotta realize by now you ain't got no chance.” A trencher board is slammed down on the wooden table. “Ya been playin' with _fire_. An’ that swishy elf? Well, he ain't as swishy as he seems. Trust me: ya ain't got what it takes ta take him down.”

Anders seems to be stunned, for his reply isn't very coherent. “Yes, and you're so wise about these things, you smelly, pint-sized keg.”

Oghren growls. “Look here Sparklefingers, ya ain't _got_ what it _takes_, I'm tellin' ya. I know 'im better'n you do; I was with both of 'em durin' the Blight. He'll skin ya _alive_. _Pickle_ parts o' ya and _feed 'em_ to ya, bit by bit. He ain't the sort ta mess with when he gets his knickers in a twist.” A meaty hand smacks the table-top, making Anders and even I, in my hiding place, jump. “I'm just tryin' ta save the Commander some grief, an' yer too stupid ta realize it.”

“Yes, well, I can handle myself.” Anders’ voice is sharp.

If I had ever wanted a better opening than this, I would need the Maker to send me a signed invitation.

Stepping away from the wall, a knife flashes into my hand, and I make a show of trimming my nails. “Oh? Do tell.” Making my way to the table, I lean down, sheathing my knife, and press a hand to the table-top beside Anders. I sweep the backs of my fingers along the side of his neck, and whisper in his ear. “You once asked me what the difference between murder and assassination was.” I massage the line of the vertebrae in his neck with my thumb, my lips barely touching his ear. “I do believe I have come to the point where I could show you, first hand, in direct detail, the _exact_ differences.” Cupping the back of the mage's head, I force him to face me, looking into his eyes, so close we're practically kissing. “The last time I murdered someone, I did not take long enough. This time, for the demonstration, I believe I shall remedy that grave mistake.”

Before Anders can say anything, I straighten, and pull the knife back into the open, then plunge it into his hand, between the bones, pinning him to the trestle table. “Follow me or or not, but keep in mind: I know very well where you sleep, dear Anders,” I say, and I flash him a grin, that one I know has to show how close I am to the edge of madness, and how ready I have become to cross that invisible line.

There is a gasp, one I recognize all too well, but I am already turning towards her, hiding the killer from her view. Her hands cover her mouth, eyes large and round, while Anders, behind me, is hissing and cursing. Oghren is blessedly silent.

Going to Withiel, I stop her with my arm across her chest just as she begins to head towards Anders. I say, for her ears only, “_Mia cara_, have a care in what steps you take next. My patience has worn thin, and is ready to snap.”

She looks up at me, so trusting, so caring, so worried, but she puts it aside and gives me her faith. “With me?”

To this I cannot help but scoff. “No. Not with you _cara_.”

I can see that she is intimidated, I can even see the way her pupils have dilated in arousal. That is exactly what I want, so to encourage it, I kiss her, lingeringly; our audience is important, and utterly unimportant. This is the last warning, the last display I will grant before I am pushed too far. So I lead her back to our rooms; there is nothing left for the day, and my nerves are too frayed. I should feel guilty that Withiel trusts me to not only know what is right, but that I attacked Anders for an 'acceptable' reason.

The urge is there, the desire to hoist Withiel over my shoulder like an inglorious sack. It is there, alongside the one that begs me to rip off her clothes, throw her down, and take her until she screams and begs for more, my name the only thing on her lips, no matter who watches, who hears. I could do it; she would let me. She would trust me that it would be acceptable and appropriate.

It is a near thing; my hands are trembling as we ascend the stairs to the observatory. I am dragging her by her elbow, and Withiel says nothing, unquestioning. Never questioning. I could take her right here on these hard stone steps; I could yank her trews down, push her to sit, and she would let me claim every last inch of her skin. But I can't treat her like that, not right now; I can't give into that monster, not until we are alone - truly alone.

Just because she would never question me doesn't mean that it is good for me to be this way with her.

I barely make it. The last few steps are taken with her in my arms, legs locked around my waist, my face buried in her chest, nipping at her breasts through the linen of her shirt. Her fingers are in my hair, and she is arching against me as I stumble to our bed, where I let her drop and fall upon her like a mad creature. Withiel is already flushed, her hair in disarray, and I tear at her clothes. It is seconds too long, but then she is bare, and I feast upon her hungrily with hands and mouth, mapping the swell of her breasts, the curve of her stomach.

I part from her only long enough to remove my clothes, and gather her close, sinking onto my back, carrying her with me. Lips collide with mine, and I can feel the softness of her inner thighs against my hips, questing hands covering my chest. A small gasp escapes me as she takes me into her body, and I arch up, enveloped in heat. Withiel is a swaying goddess above me, and my hands are free to roam her body, my senses filled with nothing but her scent, her sound, her touch, the vision she is. I can practically taste her on my tongue, and I am falling deeper, dragged along by her tide. She is my skin, my sky, my vitality, my reason, my _everything_. Bucking against her, I moan low, the sound spurring her to greater ardour. Palms press to my chest, her rocking picking up speed, the up and down on my manhood unbearably perfect.

Afterward we lay in a tangled heap, with me wrapped around her protectively.

Withiel squirms, rolling over. “So, what did he do? Do I need to reprimand him?”

There is only one 'him' that she could be talking about.

Shaking my head I find my lips twisted into a smirk. “No... the matter is well in hand.”

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

We leave for Antiva tomorrow; I am beyond relieved. It is as if a great weight is lifted from my shoulders. No more of this filthy-dog-smelling country. No more of this place where all the rooms are draughty and the people don't bathe anywhere near frequently enough. No more of this bland food, that makes me yearn for street vendors – no matter that the meat pockets probably held dog, cat or even rat. At least it had tasted good, and at least it had tasted like _something_.

But beyond the desire for wine, warmth, and familiar food, I am relieved that we leave this place mostly because of Anders.

He has been a pox, as tenacious as an infestation of fleas. Not a week goes by that he does not try to corner my Withiel alone. As of yet, he hasn't succeeded. Oghren and that dwarf Sigrun both have been helpful in this – surprisingly so, and I am grateful to them – but if we stay much longer in this hellacious country, in this grey and dreary Keep, Anders will find some way to meet with her, no matter how she doesn't wish for it.

After all – the mage _loves_ her.

Withiel tries to claim some of the blame, and I understand that, as well. There is something about the mage that drives her mad, that fills her with lust. I can understand lust very well, it is a natural thing: the body's need for pleasure, escape, a way of easing pain, whether physical or mental. He spent a year easing her pain, and her body knows it, so of course she lusts for him – frequently. For that year she would tell him 'no' after each time, only to return, so now, this lust, it overwhelms her and demands satisfaction. While Anders, the poor fool, only hears her coming back, ignoring her 'no', unable to believe what she says is truth.

If only the problem were so simple as belief and lust.

There is love and guilt thrown in here, as well, and I am the one who must handle it. Withiel cannot make herself understood and believed, and doesn't wish to harm Anders. I, of course, have no such qualms. I am fully capable and willing to do anything that will ensure she doesn't have to go through the way Anders makes her feel. She fears that lust, hates it, has come to feel debased by it, especially since I am here. She asked me how it could even be possible to have such a response to someone else, when she doesn't _want_ to feel that way about him, at all. She only wants _me_, and she swears to this up and down; of course I believe her – how can I not?

Withiel has always been an open book to me, I can always see the truth in those beautiful, loving, deep eyes of hers.

Today, tonight – I finish this once and for all. This time it truly is final. In the past I thought I had made my point; I had sworn fire and brimstone and vengeance if lines were crossed, and I had not followed through, for Withiel's sake.

The magebane that is tucked into my doublet weighs nothing; it is as light as a feather. While another person would feel horrible for what I am about to do, I only feel _relieved_. Utter, total, complete – relief. It will be _over_ soon. No more foolishness, no more games, no more of Withiel begging me to tell her she is not a whore, that she is not dirty. Late at night she clings sometimes, sobbing to me that she feels like an animal, that she is wrong, and filthy, that she is guilty of being a harlot, because her body cries out for a man who is not myself.

And the worst cry: the choked whisper that she doesn't deserve _me_, that she is unworthy of _me_, because of what her body screams for.

For that _alone_ I would peel his skin and expose his nerve endings. I would slice his skull open and feed him bits of his brain. To have made Withiel, _my_ beautiful, lovely, caring, _Withiel_, believe that she is _unworthy_ of such a lowly creature as _myself_... There are so many things I could do, so many things I want to do to him. So many pains that I wish to introduce to him, to give him an intimacy of them as familiar as a lover's caress. It drives me _mad_. Yet I have held back, held off, only waited and watched and calmed my elf, seeking to ease her pain.

I nab a pitcher of wine, and a sleight-of-hand trick empties the contents of the small pouch into the alcohol. Tonight, I shall extend Anders a peace-offering. Man-to-man, as it were. He has been ignoring me since I came into the break-room – of course he ignores me – and we are alone. That makes my life easier.

I snag two cups and straddle the bench right beside Anders, plunking the pitcher and cups down. “We have some things to discuss, my dear Anders.”

Anders pauses in his eating as I speak; up until now he had maintained his charade. “I don't think we have anything to discuss.”

“Ah, but you do not believe that, not really,” I say, filling both cups with the swill that Fereldens drink. Nudging one of the cups at the mage, I continue. “This is to be a friendly conversation, Anders. Do not attempt to make it anything else.”

The Warden growls, and downs the cup I have given him, slamming it down on the table. “We are not friends, and anything you have to say won't be friendly.”

“That is untrue, on both counts actually.” My tone is deceptively mild. “I do count you as something of a friend. You took care of my Withiel in my absence, kept her sane; for this, you have my thanks - do not discount its value - and so, I would count you as a 'friend', if things had been different.”

“I am not, nor would I ever be, your friend. I didn't do any of that for you.” He pauses, accepting his now refilled cup from my hand. “I did it for Withiel.”

Nodding, I sip my own drink slowly. “All true. But we _could_ have been friends. She _wanted_ us to be friends. We _should_ have been friends.”

I can tell how agitated he is, by the simple fact that he is already on his third serving of wine. “Yes, well, you saw to it that we weren't.”

“How is it my fault?” Setting my cup down gently, I look him in the eyes, noting that they seem unfocused. “I returned; I gave you both a chance to say goodbye. Another man would not have. I did not skin you alive after your little... encounter... in her office, no matter that it was my inclination. I have been nothing but patient with you.”

Anders is swaying in place. “Oh? What about... that display at the ball?”

“Ah. You intruded on a private moment; that is no fault of mine.” I gesture vaguely toward the hall. “You chose to follow, though you had not been invited. What would a known couple be doing, leaving such a soiree? You knew, and you decided to see it first-hand. I did not make you follow, I did not ask you to follow. That is not my problem, but yours.” Rising, I take his arm. “But come, you do appear to be drunk, and I think you shall be more comfortable in your quarters.”

He jerks his arm from my grip. “I'm not going to talk to you in my room.”

“I wasn't suggesting anything; I believe I have said what needs to be said.” Shaking my head, I take his arm once more. “I am only going to escort you to your room so you do not hurt yourself. As I said, I was willing to be your friend, and I do this to help you, as Withiel would wish me to.”

“Fine.” He is surly but accepts my assistance to his quarters.

Once we are there, I guide him inside, and sit him down on the bed. I check the door – it is easily locked with the short iron bar. Behind me, Anders groans in pain – the magebane is taking effect. It was why he became drunk so easily, but it can also take some time for it to have the... desired results.

“What... what did you do?” he asks with another groan. As I turn, I see Anders doubled on the bed, sweating and pale.

I grab his chamber pot and bring it over. “Magebane.” My answer, succinct.

“What?!” Alarm pushes through the poison’s effects and Anders bolts to his feet, finding some reserve of strength to swing upon me in desperation.

The strike doesn't even land, and there is no true resistance as I pinch the nerve of his wrist, and one in his shoulder, forcing his arm back into a wing. Anders bucks but can find no purchase, his reflexes and mind addled by the poison. I know it wasn’t enough to kill him – that was not my intent – only to disarm him, so we may have a more private conversation, with no possibility for miscommunication or violence.

Feeling very put upon, but not entirely surprised by Anders' reaction, I strip his robe away, then tie him to the headboard of his bed. I look at the strangely dense cloth in my hand, remembering exactly how much the invoice said this thing was worth. Withiel would never forgive me if I allowed Anders to damage something so valuable – so I toss it aside, where he won't vomit on it, or be able to use the mana-regenerating powers, either. His boots follow suit, and my work is swift, leaving him in nothing but his undergarments.

I suppose he is attractive, but my eye is no longer used to looking for that; my eyes, my mind and my body only want _her_. I measure the appeal of the man clinically. He is broad-shouldered; he lacks that scrawny lankness that comes from never working the body that mages generally have. Anders is fit, but he is still soft – his body is not trained like mine.

Making myself comfortable on the edge of the bed nearest Anders, I fold my hands in my lap. “You know, ultimately, I pity you. I see how you love her. I have _seen_ it. I understand it – she is... fantastic. _Glorious._ But – she is not for you.”

Anders summons a scowl, but I am unimpressed. “Only because you keep her chained up! Chained to _you_! You're nothing more than a possessive bastard!”

“Yes, yes I am – and rightly so.” I nod in ready agreement, for I am. “But, do you not think, that if she had some.... actual desire for you... that she would go to you herself?”

“Shut up! You don't know how she kisses me; you don't know what she's like when we're together. She wants me; she says no, she says no, but she _eats me alive_ as soon as she can get her mouth on mine.” Though he is pasty and grey, he looks triumphant.

I frown, thinking for a moment. Withiel is mad for kissing, of all kinds. She kisses children from the alienage on their cheeks and foreheads, she has been known to kiss Leliana, or accept them from her. Once, I even saw her hug and grant Sten a small kiss of thanks. I am not like this – the only person I kiss is Withiel. My mouth goes only on a lover, never... someone else.

Pursing my lips, I admit, “Ah... you and I... I suspect we are much the same in this thing then.”

“She kisses me with _desire_. She touches me with _need_!" He rails against me, denying anything before I can continue, staring at me with fire in his eyes.

But to me, he is so foolish, so blind. “So, you have never thought about the difference between lust and desire?”

He blinks, momentarily put off, but he rallies quickly with further denials and more head shaking.. “If it was just lust she wouldn't _kiss_ me like that – no way, no how. She wouldn't cling to me like she does.”

He is so _firm_ in his belief.

Withiel once told me that Anders had a taste like nothing else in the Maker's world, that it is as though there is a storm in his mouth, and the electric shock of burning lyrium on his tongue. It became something she can't resist, so strange, so foreign that it has become like an addiction. I, myself, have never experienced it, and as much as Withiel explained it in detail – far too graphic for my sanity, but she had to cleanse herself of the memories and make me understand – I have no true concept.

I suppose I should remedy that. Shrugging to no one in particular, I grab Anders’ head, forcing it back, and kiss him. He flinches in shock, and I pry his lips open, delving into the wet cavern with my tongue, and... I taste it. It crackles, it burns, tingles shooting shocks of something not purely electrical, not purely fire, but something else entirely, straight into my brain. Behind my closed lids, I can see thunderstorms, and the hint of the bones of this world.

Pulling away I wipe the back of my hand over my mouth, readying my attack.

“Hmph. I can see why she would kiss you like that. You taste of lyrium and magic, wild elemental things. That, actually, is how I knew what you did to her: I could smell it on her breath.” He is smug, until I lean in, slightly closer, and continue: “She couldn't even cry as she was scrubbing herself raw."

That shocks him, even more than the kiss. “What? You-- you're lying.”

“She was in a tub full of freezing water.” I pull the memory forth, let the raw emotion of seeing her like that echo in my voice. “Stinking of ozone and lyrium, and with her hand between her legs, scrubbing with soap - the harshest soap she could find. I have... rarely seen her so broken."

The image I paint causes Anders to shudder, and he chokes. “_Liar_!”

“No lie. When it comes to Withiel, I play no games. I do not lie in this.” I am steady, unwavering, merciless. “If she wanted you... I would let her go to you.” I lean over, wrapping my hand around his lower jaw, squeezing his cheeks with thumb and fingers. “Even if she wanted to simply rut with you like an animal whenever the urge took her, I would take her back and say not a word, _if_ that was her desire. If she wanted you, and wanted nothing more of me – I would leave, _if_ that was her wish. I would never stand in the way of what she needs or wants.”

His defiance is terrible to behold; I know the emotion that sort of strength of conviction comes from. “I can't believe you. I can feel it in her when she is with me, whenever I am next to her. She's just afraid to break away from you.”

“She has lust – pure _lust_,” I insist. Shaking my head, I force Anders to look at me. “It makes her feel like... an _animal_, which is what so many say elves are: nothing but animals, base creatures. So – such a lust, for her, makes her feel _filthy_.” I let that sink in a moment, and his eyes start to go round. “You never gave her the time to decide if that lust was acceptable or not. You never gave her the time to make a _choice_. You just push, push, push, never giving her the chance to decide on what to do with that lust – whether to accept it or reject it.” I realize that I'm banging his head against the headboard with each bitten off sentence and I make myself stop. “You never give her time and space to think on if she is better off with or without you!”

Anders looks like he wishes to speak, but I let go of his face and smack him once. “No! You will _listen_! She comes to me, hides, and _begs me_ to make it better, to protect her from being nothing more than a dirty, knife-eared _whore_. _That_ is how the lust you engender in her makes her feel!”

He lets out a moan, eyes clenching shut. “Nooo, no... she's... she's... no! She's _not_ a...” He struggles to swallow, and I know how hard Anders tries, and is unable to put 'whore' and 'Withiel' in the same thought. “She's not _that_.”

From everything Withiel has told me, he never treated her with anything less than respect. He was caring and attentive; it seems to me that it was almost as much as I would be. For that knowledge alone, I relent.

“I know this; you know this. She... does not.” I feel helpless against that fear of hers, just as I can see Anders and his own helplessness at this very thought.

His head is hanging, and he looks utterly lost. “I've... _never_ touched her to make her feel like that. I always... I always gave her the best. _Everything I have._ I would... I would _never_...” Tears form and spill down grizzled cheeks, and for a moment, I am sad for this man. But then I remember Withiel, and that anguish was a thousand times greater than Anders' is now. “How could she ever think that of herself?"

I shrug, non-committal, and show no care for his pain. “You make her feel lustful, like an animal, in spite of how much respect you give her. She comes from a world you know nothing of. For all your knowledge, you are so sheltered, boy. You are unable to tell the difference between desire and lust, reality and the pocket existence you've lived in your whole life.”

For a moment, he is pleading with me. “How can lust... look like that? Like... I'm... everything?” Anders shakes his head. “How can it be just lust, how can I not be everything when she looks at me like _that_?” His voice picks up strength and volume. “She was shattered, and _I_ picked up the pieces, she confided in _me_. She... she laughed for _me_; I made her whole after _you_ had _broken_ her. I held her when she couldn't sleep... She clung to me in the middle of the night and _cried_ when I tried to pull away. She looked at me... like I was... _everything_...” He trails off into sobs that shake his entire body, head hanging, sagging in the bonds I've put him in.

I think about them, all the different looks Withiel has given me since I have been fortunate to be graced with her presence, from start to finish – the wary look, the surprised smiles that came in the beginning. That cornered flash, coupled with need for comfort. The trust she put into me finally – when I had yet to even _earn_ it... And last – the open, pure, joy that is not simply the physical thing that happens when our bodies are joined... that _look_. I know that look. It is one Anders would never have seen from her.

Sighing – I seem to sigh so much, like the wind in the trees – I look at my boots for a moment, before turning back to the trussed up mage. “Trust me, if she had looked at you like you were everything, we would not be having this conversation. One of us would have killed the other, mere days after my return.”

For this I am rewarded by Anders lunging at me, straining at his bonds. “No! I wouldn't hurt Withiel like that! Not ever! I'm not a monster like you!”

Still in denial. Poor boy. I hate him.

“Fine. I shall _show_ you that look.” And that means I've made my decision.

"What?” He pauses in his mad struggles, staring at me, uncomprehending.

My answer is terse. “I shall show you that look. You will see the difference between how she looks at each of us. You will see.” I shake my head in aggravation. “I had hoped to avoid further unpleasantness.”

He renews his struggles. “What are you going to do?! If you hurt her–”

“Oh my dear boy, you truly are lost... a pitiful creature.” I laugh, and it is a hard-edged thing. “Me? Hurt _Withiel_? No. Never. You are blinded by your love. You do not understand, but you will. I shall bring her here, and you will see. You will fully see, and it is not my fault that the knowledge will break you. I no longer care very much to be sensitive to this, I only care that you leave off this foolishness, that you stop making Withiel terrified to go anywhere alone for fear of running into you, and turning into a 'whore'.”


	16. Heartpunch

Withiel is not hard to find; she is busy looking over our packs. Everything is in order – I know this, she knows this, but old habits die hard. For a moment I watch her, her ebony locks in a braided bun, little wisps having escaped to create a smoky halo around her head. Industriously, she digs and checks, repacks and re-folds clothes and various items, replacing them into our packs. I can tell she's wearing one of my shirts – the shoulders hang down almost to her elbows, and she keeps pausing her work to push them up her arms – and a pair of my leggings as well, for, as slim as she is, my hips shall always be narrower, so she fills out the bronze material in ways I never could.

“_Cara_,” I say softly, startling her, but she turns with a bright smile, for me.

“Zev!” She is in my arms instantly, hugging me as though she hasn't seen me in ages.

Stroking the back of her head, my arms wrapping around her, I tease her gently. “Ah, _cara mia_, it seems you missed me.”

She leans back, looking up at me. “Every time you aren't next to me. What have you been up to?”

“Hmm... saying my goodbyes.” Tracing the line of her brow, then her nose, I am weighing how to broach the sensitive topic that has lain heavily between us for so long now.

“And you're not drunk?” She giggles. “I could swear that if you were saying goodbye to Oghren, he wouldn't let you get away without drinking some of his ‘special brew’.”

Leaning down, I rest my cheek against hers. “No. I've already made my goodbyes to him, and to the others. Just as I am sure you have, as well.”

“Then– then who were you saying goodbye to?” Her nose scrunches in puzzlement, but then she pauses, sniffs at me a little, and I feel her going still. “Um... so... you and Anders are... _friends_ now?”

I would curse if I dared. I have forgotten the minor facts, that small matter that is the stink of lyrium and storms. Of course she would detect it. Perhaps it is not as bad a lead-in as I feared, because Withiel continues to sniff at my neck. I also must admit that it is actually rather arousing, as evidenced by the stirring in my groin.

I nuzzle at her cheek. “I have found that he and I have come to an... understanding.”

“Zev...” She leans away from me, and gives my lips an experimental sniff. “Zev... did you... _kiss_ Anders?”

I smile... grin, really. “He and I had a... discussion, and came to an... agreement.”

Her eyes go round, and I can feel her begin to tremble in excitement. “What kind of agreement?”

“A gentleman’s agreement,” I evade, touching her bottom lip. “I think that tonight, it should be a good thing, shared between... _friends_. A way to erase all the bad blood and to make things right, yes?”

She gives a little gasp, fear and excitement warring in her blue, blue eyes. “Something like the night you came back?”

I chuckle at the sight of her barely restrained eagerness. “Yes, something like that, _cara mia_. I wish for our last night here to be a good one, one that makes you happy, so we may leave with no regrets.”

Pearly white teeth sink into the plump raspberry of her bottom lip, as she nods and twines her fingers with mine. “Okay.” Another giggle escapes. “What do you want me to do?”

“Hmm...” I swing our entwined hands back and forth as if I have to think about it. “A dress. Blue, yes? To bring out these eyes that drown a man.”

Withiel veritably _skips_ to do as I suggest, rummaging in an already-packed travel trunk, rear wiggling in her eagerness. To think that this could have been the way of it, if Anders had not unsettled her so. Not that I wish to share her with anyone – not ever. I hide a sour face at the thought. Only... to make her happy. And since that mage garners such a response from her, if I had but understood sooner, and had he kept his wits about him, these last months could have gone much more pleasantly.

She dresses in short order, and is back in my arms, leaning into me. “Do you like it?”

“Perfect _cara_, you look ravishing – but this...” I take down her hair from its bun and unbraid it, combing it with my fingers, and smile at my handiwork as her ebony hair tumbles in shining waves around her shoulders. “Ah, much better now.”

Such adoration I see in her eyes, such pleasure at simple praise. Ah, my beautiful Withiel, I would tear down the stars from the sky to make a necklace of them for you, if only to have you always look at me like this.

Turning, I present her with my arm. “Shall we?”

Withiel wraps her arm around mine, standing so close as we make our way down the stairs that her hip brushes against me. “So, where are we going?”

“Anders has volunteered his rooms for our tryst.” I smile down at her easily. “It is a suitable venue: a large bed, a window for fresh air... And it also has the benefit of being a place we can leave once we are done.”

She seems surprised. “Back to our room, then?”

I had not thought of this. I had believed she would wish to exit as soon as the deed was done, but her tone suggests she would like to stay in Anders’ room for a time, and I hesitate. “We can stay as long as you like. I thought perhaps we should have some time to ourselves afterwards – to sleep, maybe, amongst other things.”

She nods immediately, blushing. “No, of course. I wouldn't want to... _sleep_ there.” She shivers. “I just wondered if that was the end of the plan for the night, or if you had other destinations in mind.”

To this I cannot help but laugh. “Ah, you mean you wish to visit Oghren? Or maybe Sigrun, she seems like she could be fun...”

She is scandalized. “No! Maker, eew.” She shudders. “I was thinking... more along the lines of...” She gestures vaguely. “Wine, maybe. Music. Something. I don't know what kinds of things you might be planning.” She blushes again, looking down. “You had me wear a dress. I thought perhaps we were going somewhere else, too.”

“Ah, no, I had no such thing planned.” Truly, I had planned on a quiet evening alone with her, no interruptions, the first night of our lives together. “Mostly, I just enjoy the lovely vision you are when in a dress. I thought we could be gracious, and share it with Anders.”

That had been my plan, after dealing with Anders, of course... but he has forced my hand, _again_. Stubborn people, when they are in love, and blind, do foolish things, like following their love to Antiva and causing strife. Well can I imagine the hell-storm that would occur if Anders were to show up. I would have to order him dead simply to be rid of him. For a Crow as highly placed as I have become to allow another man to cuckold him would not bode well for his career and life expectancy in such politically cut-throat venues.

Her head turns at my praise, and there is such desire in her eyes. “I didn't know you liked me in a dress so much,” she says, thoughtfully. “I'll remember that.”

We reach Anders' quarters quickly, and I swing the door open, revealing Anders still tied to the headboard. Withiel pauses and looks at me questioningly, but I give her an encouraging smile, as does the mage, when she looks to him. I secure the door behind us – it would be rather embarrassing for us to be interrupted in this.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

_'I belong to him'_, she said, as though she were simply a piece of furniture, or a slave. I was horrified. But what could I say? I had already agreed to let go of her, been assured that this would be what she wanted. And then she cried when he touched her. The look of anguish on her face, in that one moment... she was slow in responding to him. He made her _cry_; he stole her pride. She didn't even cry when she took that spear to the gut, and Justice had carried her back to the keep to lay her at my feet. I could see the agony in her face, the white lines around her mouth, her skin transparent over the bones of her knuckles where she gripped the haft with crushing ferocity. Even through every pain and every nightmare, never a tear, not until he showed up and tore them from her. Yet, I kept my word. I held her, and I kissed her, and I tried to say goodbye... and then I left her in the arms of a killer. He is so false with her. She never sees the way his face twists when her back is to him. He looks at her like she's a _possession_; he looks at everyone else with barely concealed menace, much of the time, whenever he's around her.

He always looks like he's going to devour her, to take everything she is, and consume it in a raw fit of need. People like him, they don't know anything of gentleness. He can't give her what she needs, ultimately, and in the end he will consume her because of it. He will suck everything from her to feed his dark desires, until there is nothing left. Then he will destroy her, just walk away again, looking for his next victim, and she cannot see it. He is _using_ her.

So now, as payment for trying to show her that she could break free, if she dared, I must watch him ravish her, to prove to me that she only looks at him in some certain way. So far, for months, all I’ve seen is a sickening submissiveness and a total ignorance of the barely-repressed violence ready to boil over right behind her. She's so fiery, strong, brave, intelligent, and independent; why would she let _anyone_ just... _rule_ her like that? If he hadn't poisoned me, he'd be a dead man. I cannot believe I didn't taste it; I let him distract me. So fucking stupid. But he was drinking it himself, of course. Couldn't be poisoned, right? I flex my hands against the bonds again, but he's far too good for that, oh no. I keep trying to reach for the Fade, but it's just... like trying to grab at smoke. It's there, I can smell it. I just can't... touch it.

He's taken from me the only two things that my hands have ever been good for.

He returns with her, barring the door behind them. She is beautiful, so beautiful it breaks my heart. What can I do but smile for her, when she looks at me? Nevermind that I’m tied to the headboard, sweetheart, don't frown; no, never that. The assassin puts his arm around her waist and leans in close to whisper in her ear, and her face turns, her eyes dropping, then she smiles, and turns those sparkling eyes to me. I don't know what he's told her, but she is immediately more comfortable, and that is all that matters. She must feel safe here, she _must_. She has ever been safe behind this door, in this bed. How could he be right, that she would not have felt that way, no matter how we have been this last year?

“What... uh...” she begins, but Zevran _doesn't give her any time_ to form a coherent question, as he wraps both arms around her and pulls her close, kissing her thoroughly, and my heart clenches. It has been torture since he got here. Torture, seeing her willing in his arms like that. I can see all the tight muscles in her shoulders ease as she leans on him. Withiel should know by now that she can lean on me like that. She _has_ leaned on me like that. She doesn't need him, and his violent, possessive ways, not when I’m here; I won't chain her, keep her caged and attached to my belt. He's even got her wearing a dress. A _dress_. She once told me she _hates_ dresses, because they hamper her legs, and whenever she has to do a formal function, she feels vulnerable to all the nobles, because she wouldn't be able to run, or fight, nearly as well. Terrible things happened to her the first time she put on a dress, and she has ever associated such a garment with the events of that day. I’ve held her through her nightmares after she's been forced to wear one while dealing with the nobles. He is flaunting his power, his iron control over her, and it sickens me.

So he kisses her, and _dances_ with her over to the bed, turning with her, and she giggles. He spins her, and her dress swings out over her legs, flashing her calves, and I see the pointed end of the silver line just above her knee where I healed her when she nearly lost that leg in the Wending Wood. She had clung to me, pale-faced, shuddering, strong as steel, her eyes burning with blue fire. “Tell me you can fix it,” she begged me, she _begged_, and I didn't know if I could, it was so bad, so bad. But I couldn't tell her no. It took two bottles of strong lyrium and everything I had to put her back together again, and all that's left is a tiny white line, like it had never been anything more than a scratch. I never told her how it sickened me, how my hands shook for days afterward; it was worth it, because she came to my door that night, she kissed me, she pushed me to this bed, she thanked me for healing her... she looked at me like I was her world.

How is that lust?

She conscripted me without a thought, standing between me and Rylock with her chin raised, this tiny little woman who didn't even know me, just putting herself in the middle. She once told me that she felt the tower was a jail, that she had been disgusted by the fact that some of the children asked her questions about what the _sky_ looked like. She railed against the slavery of the Tranquil and the heavy, biased hands of the Templars. She told me of the way she had defied them, stormed the tower and taken down Uldred with her own two hands, how she could not believe that they would sacrifice the lives of so many just on the actions of a few. She had paced and ranted, beautiful in her fury, tearing down Kinloch stone by stone with her words alone, and I loved her for it.

Her coal-black hair spreads across my thighs like a fall of silk as he lays her across the bed so that her head is in my lap. I look down into her eyes, and I see that spark, that desire there, I see it as she looks at me, and I want to kiss her, so much I can taste it. I can feel the soft press of her lips, oh, almost, but I cannot reach her. Her hand rises and she touches my cheek; I cannot help but lean into her soft fingers. No matter how rough her palms, her fingertips, they are always like satin. She takes a breath, she's going to speak, she's looking at me and she wants to say something, but _he distracts her again_, pressing his face between her thighs, and her eyes flutter closed.

_Oh no, mustn't let her speak to me. She might get other ideas, and you can't have that, can you, you sodding monster._ I struggle with myself, and manage, just barely, not to growl, not to let my face show the torture. She mustn't know, not ever.

I try to hold on to her touch, but she is distracted, and her hand is falling. I am powerless to stop it, and so I watch her, agonized, while she turns her head back and forth, and her hand curls senselessly over my shoulder, but the face she is making is not for me. Her hair writhes and curls over my stomach, her lips, her hot breath on my skin, but it is not for me, because I can't touch her. And oh, of course, such an eloquent message.

I look down into her face, and, though it kills me that this is not my hand, I have seen this face before. She has looked like this for me, many, many times, and I ache to kiss her throat as her head tips back. She is keening and breathless, her shoulders hitching, back arching, and this is my girl, as well. My Commander. I feel that shudder run through her, the one that warns of her impending crest, and then she sags back, boneless, as he suddenly stops. She mewls, half senseless, and I know I’ve been responding to her; it aches. Oh, how it aches.

She opens her eyes, looking up at me, and there, the smile, I see it glimmering there, I see it in her eyes, the way she looks at me – looks at _me_ – but he is taking it away from me again, distracting her again, and she gives _him_ that face, too. I knew this, though: she loves him. It is not easy to watch, but I knew this. He leans over her, pushing his face into the space between her shoulder and her neck, and whispers to her. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, and he pushes against her suddenly, taking her _on my lap_. Oh, oh, the cruelty. Her head snaps back, pushing her cheek against me in a most tortuous way, and I have to fight not to groan for want of her. Oh, how close her gasping mouth, the heat of her breath across me as her face turns toward me again, but she is out of reach, ever out of reach.

Her eyelids flutter; she is looking at me again, her gaze unfocused, and I can feel her shaking, the bucking that presages her release. Oh, Maker, her eyes, her eyes; she sees me. If I could touch her now, she would welcome it, I can _see_ it in her.

“Withiel, _amora mia, guardami_,” he whispers, and her gaze snaps back to him, and oh, oh this is the moment when my world burns down, because I see it. As her peak sweeps over her, as she is looking at him, and not me... I _see_ it. Her face transforms with ecstasy. She is radiant, transcendent... rapturous.

She reaches up with shaking hand, her fingertips across his tattoo, the way she looks at him, oh... Maker, I can't bear to watch any more. That face, that face, I’ve never seen it before, never. It's a part of her that she kept hidden away, no matter how she clung to me, no matter how she kissed me, somehow, no matter how she wrapped herself around me in desperation, oh, Maker, it wasn't that. It still wasn't enough – _I_ still wasn't enough – and now I know: I never will be. It tears me up, rending my soul in its jagged claws. I’m going to bleed to death. She's never loved me, not like I have loved her.

He has been right, and it sickens me.

And oh Maker, dear Andraste – someone, please save me – he is looking at her the same way. No. No, oh Maker, no. We have been fighting, struggling between the two of us – as if she were a pawn. If she had loved me, loved me like I love her... then it would have been the right thing. I _thought_ it was the right thing. Oh, I am sick, I am dying, no... Please don't let it be this way. All the laughter, all the times _she_ pushed _me_ down to this bed, all the clinging and the frightened whispering in the dark, all the times I held her and she kissed my neck, every time she sought solace in my arms, all the pleading for my touch... none of it matters. She never felt it like I did. She never felt it. I want to scream; my heart is crushing in on itself, burning to ash, crumbling to dust. I am broken.

Oh, oh, she warned me. Oh, she did. _'It'll end in tears,'_ she said, and I didn't understand. I didn't believe. I thought she was frightened, I thought she needed me... The way she looked at me... It was never real. It should have been! _'I can't belong to two,'_ she said, and I didn't understand; I thought she couldn't find a way out, never believing for a second with the way he acts that she would ever _choose_ to stay, ever choose _that_... _him_. Why? Why would she do it?

It doesn't matter. She's chosen, and it isn't me.

Oh, Maker, it isn't me.

She is still dazed when he's finished with her; she doesn't ask any sensible questions, just accepts him putting her dress back on her, flattering her and spinning her around, kissing her, laughing with her, and pushing her out the door with promises of meeting in the baths, and then he says, “I just need to free Anders.” He shuts the door and leans against it, regarding me in my sorry state, and the look on his face is far, far from friendly. “So, now you see, yes?”

I nod, and watch him seethe, I can tell. A normal person has some kind of movement to them, but he's gone entirely motionless. “You gonna release me?”

He smiles, nasty and predator-like. “Hmm... That is an _interesting_ choice of words,” he murmurs, coming closer. He gathers up the sheet that they had lain upon, that he had used to... Maker's breath, he used it to clean her up. “I think it would be best if you didn't see us off,” he says next, looking at me with his head cocked. “This was plenty goodbye for you, wasn't it? I think this was enough of a goodbye.” I nod, watching as he pulls the sheet close to his face and inhales, that predatory gleam never leaving his eye.

“You know, there is a certain _alchemy_... a perfect balance that happens, when two people's bodies are exactly right for each other. There's no mistaking it. It is heady and intoxicating, for anyone who smells it. It can be so powerful, that there are those who would pay huge, obscene amounts of money just for the _chance_ to gather such an essence to use in the more... forbidden... magics. It is lucky for you that I am feeling generous today, yes?” He wraps me in the defiled sheet, the scent of her, of them, all over it. The smell of her, Maker, it does embarrassing things to me, and I am already in a difficult state just from the writhing that was going on in my lap.

I growl and struggle, trying to lean away, but, of course, the bindings make that impossible. He makes sure to cover me in it. Their scent. He acts as though he's going to leave, but then he turns back toward me, as if in afterthought. “Ah, yes. I forgot to answer your question. You asked me if I intend to 'release' you, now.” He comes back to me, standing over me, and I suddenly have grave misgivings about what he intends. He looks down at me for a moment, and then smiles. “Do you know, I believe it would be simply cruel for me to leave you in that state, after all.” I take his meaning just a moment before he acts.

“No!” I say, frantic. “Andraste's tits! No!” But the protesting, well... It doesn't do any good for someone who is tied up, does it? He leans in and kisses me again, especially cruel, as her scent is all over his face and I can taste her in his mouth. And as rock-solid as I have been since she laid her beautiful head in my lap, it is both pathetic and shameful, what response he is able to provoke, and how quickly it is over. He wipes his hand on my stomach as he pulls away, and I... I am broken. I cannot find it in me to even look up, not now.

“I'll... Make sure someone comes along to fetch you. Eventually,” he says carelessly, as he heads for the door. He pauses there and looks back at me, one last time. “Oh... And... If anyone even breathes a _hint_ of your presence _anywhere_ in Antiva – and believe me, I _will_ know – I will finally illustrate to you, quite eloquently, and in loving detail, the precise difference between assassination and murder, no matter what my Withiel may desire. Understand that from this moment, you draw breath on _my sufferance_. Do not squander it senselessly.”

The door bangs shut behind him, and I am left alone with my thoughts, with her scent all over me, with the way _he makes_ her smell, with his scent, and my own unwanted desire. The Keep is silent through the long watches of the night.

The dawn wakes me with the sound of cheering and horses in the courtyard, the guards chanting the song they made up about Withiel during the siege, to keep up their morale. I remember her standing tall, proud, and triumphant on the battlements above the city of Amaranthine. She looked over her shoulder at me, the most brilliant smile on her face. “We did it,” she shouted, a radiant battle-goddess, covered in blood and mantled with the glory of her titles. How she shone in the uncertain light. That night, she pushed me against the wall, just there, next to my wardrobe, and murmured to me in the dark about how she was so grateful that all of us were alive, that we had survived... that _I_ had survived.

Just lust. Just _lust!_

It takes me a long time to work up to it, but eventually, it tears at me enough that I do, finally, scream under the weight of it, and for a while, I give in to the despair of losing her. I have, I know I have. I know it. I don't know how much poison he fed me, but the Fade is still so out of reach, it makes me tremble with the helplessness of it. I feel shaky and sick. I haven't eaten anything in far too long, the Warden's hunger clawing at my stomach like a ravening monster. The magebane still in my system is making me, even now, go through cycles of fever and chills, cold sweats and nausea. They are subsiding, but not quickly enough. Without access to my antidotes, I’m forced to ride out the entire course.

It is hours still before I hear anything from the other side of my door, but finally, there is a tentative rapping. Abruptly realizing my state from an outside point of view, I suddenly don't want to be found. Before I can think what to yell out that will keep me from being discovered the door opens, and that's the end of trying to hide what's happened to me. “Anders, I was told to – oh. Oh! Ohhhh...”

I am completely mortified. It's that pretty dwarven girl we managed to pick up right before the siege – Sigrun. “Hey!” she says, moving toward me quickly. When she leans over me, she pauses. “You smell like...” She draws back, her eyes unreadable, and at last, she says, “This is kinda cruel.” The look in her eye, the sadness, it's real, isn't it? I don't even dare to conjecture. I know fuck-all about women, that's clear. And yet... Here she is, this tiny little woman, muttering sadly to herself, and half to me, about how horrible this situation is, how she can't believe someone would poison me, that I would be left here in so undignified a state, and then, once she gets some of the knots loose, she begins to exclaim over how the bonds have hurt me, as well.

I watch her carefully, this strange person with my hand in her lap, massaging at it frantically, murmuring over how my fingers have gone a little off-colour from being bound so long, and I realize she's actually terrified that something bad may befall me. It matters to her that I am healthy, that I am unharmed, and this is a revelation. Seen through the lens of this moment, with her head bent over my hand, a little furrow between her brows, her mouth turned down, the soft urgency in her usually irrepressibly vivacious expression, I suddenly apprehend a pattern to the interactions we have had. She's been trying to get my attention for months.

Blind. So, so very blind. I’m a pathetic mess.

As the oldest conscript in the Keep, I rate high enough to have my own bath; Sigrun leads me to it and fills it for me, since my hands do not work. Broken and shamed, I sit in the bottom of it and let her climb all over me, washing away the evidence of the previous evening's activities. At last, her face swims into view in front of me, as a bucket of water slowly runs and drips its way through my hair.

“Anders,” she murmurs, worried, and takes my face in her hands. “Anders, there are other people who wouldn't waste such a gift.” She is so earnest, that I wish I had been listening. What gift? This is when it registers, this woman, this... Sigrun. Sigrun is kissing me, and she is naked, and curvy, and in my lap, and she's been wanting me ever since she got here. That's what she's been saying. She was talking about Withiel... and herself. She wouldn't waste such a gift, she says.

Me?

A gift?

As I run them up her back, I realize I can feel my hands again. She breaks away from me, her eyes completely dark and wild. “You taste like home,” she says, licking her lips.

I find that my hands are good for something else, after all.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

The ship is huge. I've never been on a boat before, and this one is gigantic. A merchant ship, fat bellied and ponderous, with suites inside for wealthy passengers, which we apparently are. The whole Arlessa thing never felt real, the Commander of the Grey has way more responsibilities than thinking about shoes and dresses, and an alienage girl finds a handful of silver to be a small fortune – nevermind the huge sums that crossed my desk as I tried to keep the Vigil and Amaranthine from succumbing to the darkspawn invasion.

But this wasn't about me, no matter that the sailors show me such respect. No, this was about Zev, all of them practically falling all over themselves to show him every courtesy.

I run my hands over the embroidery on just _one_ of the couch cushions. Hours upon hours of work in all six of them, and that doesn't even begin to touch the carpet on the floor, the carvings on the desk and chairs, the pierced lattice-work of the heavy screen next to the wardrobe, the carvings on the bed, which is draped in silks, velvets, and brocades. I hardly know what to do with myself; it's like the palace in Denerim, a room for a shem noble, and it's stifling. I begin to pace, my hands itching, before Zev can even send away the cabin boy who brought us here.

The next thing I know, his arm is about my waist, and he is dragging me to a set of double-doors. Flinging them wide, he opens the heavy portal, revealing a balcony, open to the fresh air, facing the sea. A salt-laden burst of cool air blows my hair back from my forehead, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “Better?” he asks, his voice soft in my ear, and I turn toward him automatically, my eyes closing.

“Mmh, yes, immensely,” I murmur, rubbing my cheek against his. “Why is everyone so frantic to make sure you're happy?”

“This is a guild ship, _amora_.”

I turn to look at him, frowning. “And?”

He shakes his head, a smile playing about his lips. “You are not afraid of me, _cara_, because you have no reason to be. This is not a perception I encourage in anyone else.”

“Hmm... I'm a lucky woman, then.” I feel the sails catch the wind and the boat begins to move out of the harbour; we are moving forward, leaving Ferelden behind. I can't help it now, I'm so relieved to be gone, and I kiss him passionately. I am rewarded by his arms tightening around my waist and that hungry little growl that always makes me want to lick his throat, just to feel the vibration against my lips. His hands slide up under my shirt, splaying across my belly, as his lips descend to my neck. I close my eyes again, leaning my head back against his shoulder, relaxing into his embrace, my hands covering his. “It's over... we're free...” I whisper, a heady joy beginning to overwhelm me.

No more stench of darkspawn. No more war, shem nobles, grey rain and mud, or the stupid 'Hero of Ferelden' business.

“Mmh... In a manner of speaking,” he agrees cautiously, and I smile.

“All I have to think about is you taking me home... Oh, Zev, tell me about _home_,” I plead, curling closer into him.

“Oh, _cara_, you will love our house,” he murmurs, “the very one I told you of before, on the edge of the Rialto Bay. All the windows open to the sea, and a riot of flowers grow on every balcony and beneath every window...”

I press my ear to his chest, the beat of his heart a steady counterpoint to the beating of the waves against the side of the ship, his voice washing over me as he tells me exactly how he's about to pull that dream of Antiva right down out of the sky and put it in my hands. Everything, all that I’ve ever wanted, is within my reach, is standing with his arms around me, whispering in my ear. I finally have the luxury to just _be_. He gives me this, _he_ makes this possible, and it brings tears to my eyes. He cuts off abruptly, mid sentence, and tips my chin up, searching my face. “What is it? If the idea of servants unsettles you so, I shall dismiss them immediately.”

I shake my head, reaching up to stroke the side of his face. “You came back for me,” I say, helpless to explain the choking, crushing weight of all that I am struggling to leave behind in Ferelden. All this time, I have been terrified that I would never escape it, that I would never see Antiva, that we would never survive long enough to even think about reaching for all that we so ardently wished for in the depths of our despair during those long nights of the Blight. Even packing, I never quite dared to believe that it was happening, that we would be going.

He looks confused now, and brushes the hair from my forehead, cups my cheek in his palm and smooths his thumb over my cheekbone. “_Cara_...” he whispers thickly, a terrible anguish in his eyes that mirrors my own. “Did you think I _wished_ to leave you?” he asks. We have never spoken of this; I was too afraid to bring it up, in case talking about it somehow summoned something else to separate us.

I shake my head, adamantly. “No! No, _never_. But... I was so scared you wouldn't, that something–” I bury my face in his shoulder. I can't even bear to think of it, how my mind would invent such dark things in the night, how I would lie awake for hours, staring at an empty armour stand, trying to convince myself that he is unstoppable, that no one could take him from me, that no one could keep him from my side, even as I remembered the moment on the roof of Fort Drakon when I nearly lost him, before we even had a chance to begin. “Sometimes it felt so far away... like we'd never make it. I can hardly believe it. You've given me so much.”

He crushes me to his chest, burying his face in my hair. “I only try to give you what you have given me: a life worth living.”

Oh, my soul. “I couldn't have that without you,” I confess, and kiss him again.

If this were a tale, this would be the moment where the Hahren would say, 'happily ever after'. I know we've only got a couple of decades, but they're _ours_. So, why not?

Let the 'happily ever after' commence.


	17. At Days' End

Withiel sits bolt upright in bed. Sweat sticks her shift to her skin. "No," she whispers.

Zevran throws an arm around her waist, still sleepy. After all these years, he's grown used to her night disturbances. "Mm?"

"It's time," she breathes.

"It's just a dream, you're not in labour, go back to sleep," he mumbles, tugging her backward. She falls back amongst the pillows, but she is not comforted, not in the slightest. She rolls to her side and curls against him.

Something about the way she moves brings him closer to consciousness, and he realizes she is crying, and this is uncommon enough to give him pause. He can count on one hand the number of times she has cried since the Blight ended over twenty years ago, now.

He closes his eyes, suddenly understanding. He gathers her into his arms and rests his chin upon her head. "Ah, my darling Warden. These years have been too short by far," he murmurs, and she wraps her arms around his waist.

"Oh, Zev, it's come early for me, I was supposed to have more time," she wails.

They get no more sleep that night.

Leliana comes into the kitchen the next morning and catches Withiel packing rations. "Uh... Mom? Where are you going?" Zevran strides past with two packs in his hands, muttering to himself about whetstones. He drops one on the table before leaving the room. Leliana watches him go with an incredulous look. "What is going on? Are you leaving? Has something happened in Ferelden?"

Withiel finishes tying the thongs on her ration pack and looks down at her hands. "Lel, I had hoped to see you married, my girl. But time has other plans for me." She looks up at her daughter and sighs. "Listen carefully, because I must be gone, and you will never, ever see me again in this life."

Leliana is shocked to tears. With shaking hands, Withiel continues to pack as she gives her daughter every piece of advice she can think of, everything she thought she had plenty of time to give.

"And finally, my beautiful girl, never settle for anything less than what is worthy of you. Do not marry too quickly." She pulls the ties tight on her pack.

Zevran reappears with an arm load of armour and weaponry. Withiel is slightly dismayed to discover that her armour is heavier than she remembers. "Tch. I've gone soft, my love," she murmurs as he helps her with the buckles.

He smiles and kisses her neck. "Only in all the best ways," he replies. "Do not worry, it will settle."

She turns to help him into his, and they strap on their arms. Leliana watches, eyes glazed. Who _are_ these people? Withiel sweeps her hair up into a practised bun and tries on her helmet.

Tucking it under her arm, she tests her pack weight. "All right. Lel, the house belongs to you now. Over here... see this stone?" She pulls a stone on the fireplace over to the side, and a small click can be heard. She stomps twice on the floor, and a board pops up. She smiles at Leliana's surprise. "All our money is in here, and it's yours now. Share it with your sister." Withiel crouches down and pulls out a handful of gold coins.

She drops the coins into a pouch while Zevran stomps down the board and replaces the stone. Leliana breaks from her freeze and runs over to them. She throws herself into Zevran's arms hard enough to stagger him, and he laughs, hugging her tightly. "Don't go!" she wails.

"Ah, little bird, but we must." He tips her chin up with two fingers and kisses her forehead. "Remember us, and all that we have taught you. Live well, my girl." He sets her away from him by her shoulders, and flashes her the smile she knows so well.

Withiel hugs Leliana quickly. "I love you, sweetheart."

As they turn for the door, Leliana says, "Wait! Can you at least tell me why?"

Withiel looks over her shoulder. "Being a Grey Warden comes at a price, my girl. It's time for me to pay it."


	18. East of the Sun, West of the Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _An AU fairytale_

Withiel huddled under a blanket in the snow, curled on a doorstep. It was the coldest night she had ever known. The owner of the house had no charity, and had not cared that her father was sick, could not work to earn the coin they needed. When she would not submit to him in exchange for the rent, he took the key and locked the door. Her aunt took her father in, but could not take Withiel, for there were many children to feed.

It was the middle of the night, and she blew on her fingers again, trying to coax the blue out of them. She huddled against the door, beginning to feel the warmth inside. The blanket became too hot to bear, and she dropped it behind her. A heavy wind blew it away into the night. At last, she was feeling warm. Her limbs were stiff and her eyes grew heavy.

A silhouette in the night, a long black cloak, a deep hood, a face shrouded in darkness. A strong pair of arms gathered her up and carried her. When she looked up, a black mask covered the upper half of his face, but she could see his full lips, his golden eyes. "Shh. You are safe now," he murmured. She believed him, and fell asleep against his shoulder.

She woke in the morning wearing only her small clothes, in an unfamiliar bed. The room was filled with luxury: a dark red carpet on the floor, candles in every sconce, finely carved wood everywhere, even the bed she slept in was plush and full with feathers, the pillows satiny and deep. The room smelled of costly spices. A beautiful velvet dress, fit for a noble, hung from a hook on the back of the door. A pair of matching high-heeled velvet boots stood to one side.

Having no other option, she put them on. She stood at the window, and looked out over a snow covered forest. In the distance, she could see a road that led out of the wood, but not a sign of the city she had come from. Nothing looked at all familiar.

Curiosity got the better of her at last, and she went to explore. She walked corridor after corridor, peeked in room after room, and found no other living soul. Everything was covered in sheets of white, most of the drapes were drawn. In the kitchen, at last, she found signs of life, somewhere that was more familiar to her than the rest of the ostentatious house.

_No matter where you go, a kitchen is a kitchen._ A cheerful blaze danced in the fire place, and a pot of heavenly-smelling stew hung on a hook on the hearth, ready to eat. She suddenly realized how hungry she was, and dished herself a portion with shaking hands. A loaf of sweet, crusty bread stood upon the table, and she cut just the hardest end for herself.

After her meal, she set to cleaning the kitchen, for though it was homey, it was also quite dirty. When she had finished, she sat upon the servant's couch, and was soon fast asleep. When she woke, the sun had set outside, and the room was darkened since the fire had burned low. Automatically, she rose and stoked the fire.

The door banged opened from the outside, letting in a swirl of snow and cold air. She shivered, and turned around quickly as the chill air blustered through. There, standing at the door, was her benefactor. He regarded her seriously, and, belatedly, she remembered to curtsy.

He watched her a moment, then pulled off his gloves. He sat down at the table, not bothering to remove his cloak or mask. She hurried to serve him a bowl of the stew, still warm from its proximity to the fire, before he could even ask for it. She stood to the side and waited to be tasked with something. He ate in silence. At last, as his bowl was clean, he stood and turned to her. "Why were you alone in the snow?" His voice was surprisingly gentle.

She recounted the events of the night past. His face became darker and darker, and she could tell she was making him angry. She finished her tale in a very small voice, her face turned away, her head bowed. For a while, after she had finished, there was silence. Then, in that same gentle voice, he said, "You may stay with me as long as you wish."

When she looked up, he was gone.

She spent many weeks dwelling amongst the empty rooms. The house was as big as a palace, and held many treasures. She spent an entire day in a room full of trunks, pulling out beautiful dresses, one by one, and trying them on. Most were too big, but many of them were small enough to fit her. Each of the dresses that fit her properly, she set aside, and amused herself by wearing a new one every day. She could not find any servant's clothing, so she kept the kitchen and cooked food in her borrowed finery.

Every night, he would come in through the kitchen door, eat in silence, and then talk to her about many subjects, long into the night. He taught her games of strategy, and how to wield a knife. She was always excited to tell him about what she had seen, and all the treasures she had found. He was kind to her, and would often bring her gifts: strawberries, sweet cream, silk stockings, soap that smelled like summer flowers, even though it was the dead of winter. He was a perfect gentleman.

Only two things did he forbid: one, that there should never be any lights lit after dark, with exception of the kitchen, and two that she must never enter his quarters. She always had to feel her way along places where there was no light, and became adept at avoiding furniture, at making her way in the dark. Her night-vision sharpened, and she could see things hulking in the darkness before she ran into them.

One night she asked him about the locked door at the end of the first floor. He sat, silent, for a long while. But, at last, he smiled, stood, and held out his hand to her. It was the first time he had offered her any kind of physical contact since the night he picked her up and brought her here. She blushed, and slid her hand into his. His hand was rough and callused, but he folded his fingers around hers so gently.

With his free hand, he pulled out a key from beneath his cloak, and unlocked the door. He pushed it wide, standing sideways, and pulled her forward with his other hand. The room was huge and oval-shaped. Cold winter moonlight filtered in from the high windows, and the room was chill enough that she could see her breath. But, oh, the treasures within. Shelf upon shelf, lining the walls and standing freely in the centre of the room, books and books, everywhere. She was so overcome with joy, she squealed and threw her arms around his neck. "Thank you, thank you!" she breathed.

He startled, pulled back from her abruptly. Her hands flew to her mouth. "I'm sorry, that was wrong, very impertinent, I'm sorry, please forgive-"

"No," he said, waving a hand. "It has been... long... since ..." Abruptly, he broke off. He handed her the key, and walked away.

She stood there a long while, holding the key, and wondering what had happened to him... indeed, who was he? For he would never give her his name, nor take off his mask. "I cannot," he would say. "It is too dangerous. Is it not enough to be here, to share this?" He gestured around, as though to take in the whole house and its grounds.

Many weeks later, as the snows were beginning to melt away, she confessed her loneliness. He was silent for a very long time. "At least let me go see my father," she begged. "I don't know if he's even alive." At last, he nodded.

"I understand. In the morning, there will be a coach, pulled by four horses. My coachman will take you down to the place where I found you, and wait for you there. While you are with your family, you must not speak of what passes here." For the first time, he reached out and laid his fingers over hers. He would not look her in the eye. He walked her to her chamber that night. Before she could turn to go, he pulled her gently forward and kissed her. She trembled in his arms, but the kiss was too brief by far. "I hope that you will return quickly," he whispered. Before she even opened her eyes, he was gone.

That night, she packed a trunk with clothes, money, and gifts for her family. "I'll stay for three days, no more," she promised herself.

Her homecoming was joyous, and all her friends and family came together to throw her a party. Everyone marvelled at her beautiful clothing, at the coach that had brought her, at the gifts she brought them. When they would ask her where she had acquired such riches, she would only say, "A very rich man gave them to me." Her family and friends kept her busy with going here and there, talking to this or that person, staying with family and visiting with her father, and the time slipped away.

At last, one night, she sat in the kitchen with her aunt and her cousin.

"He never lets you see his face?" her cousin asked, incredulous.

"No... he said it would be too dangerous."

Her aunt and cousin exchanged glances. "He must be a criminal of some kind," her aunt declared.

"Yes, you must find some way of seeing his face. What if he is a terrible murderer?" her cousin fretted.

"Do you know where his bedchamber lies?" her aunt asked.

"Yes... but-"

"Then here is what you must do: in the middle of the night, when you know him to be sleeping, creep in with a candle, and look at his face. Surely he will not be wearing the mask while he sleeps?"

A full month had passed when she finally made her farewells and made her way back to the palace in the hills. She reached it just by nightfall, and was joyous to return, breathless, with all that had passed trembling upon her lips, just waiting for the moment when she could tell him everything that had happened, and all about her family. But when she entered the kitchen, the hearth was cold, and dust lay over everything. Her heart was struck with fear.

She ran through the house, looking for him in every room, but he was nowhere to be found. At last, tired and hungry, she returned to the kitchen and made herself a cold meal of cheese, bread, and dried meat.

In the morning, she began to explore the house again. Everywhere, in every room that they had been using up to that point, she saw signs of abandonment and neglect. By the time she came to his room, she was in tears. She tried the latch, but it was locked. Defeated, she returned to the kitchen and distracted herself with preparations for dinner. For three nights, she sat in the kitchen, waiting. For three nights, she slept curled on the floor outside his door.

On the fourth night, he returned. She flew into his arms, tearfully babbling how she had been afraid he would never return. She sobbed into his chest, and he held her awkwardly. At last, she stepped back and wiped her eyes. Silence stretched between them a long while before he said, "_You_ were gone for a _month_."

More tears stood in her eyes as she confessed, "I began to long for you. I could not stay away. I thought I wanted to go home, but once I got there, I only wanted to come back. I realized how happy I have been here, with you. I stayed so long because... because I... don't... ah... intend to go back. Again." Fire rose behind his golden eyes, and when she pulled him toward her chamber that night, at last, he consented to join her. Before he would let her touch him, he closed the shutters so no light would come in.

She woke in the middle of the night. She could tell by the sound of his breath that he was asleep. She crept out of the room and fetched a tinder, then lit a candle. Shielding it with her hand, she crept back toward her chamber. From the doorway, she could see a glimmer of fair hair. Carefully, quietly, she padded across the floor. Leaning forward from the corner of the bed, she could see his face. The tattoos on his face, down his chest, the scars... He was a Crow. A stray beam of light fell across his cheek, and his eyes snapped open.

He sat up angrily, and when she saw the full shape of his face, she realized that she knew who he was. Zevran Arainai. Her shocked face said everything. He pressed his lips together in a tight line.

"Had you simply followed my wishes, with only a few months left, the warrant on me would have expired, and we would have been able to live openly. But now, as we speak, my brethren descend, for your light has proven to them that I yet live. Now I must return to them, and cement an alliance between warring factions by marrying an evil, cold-hearted woman whom I do not love." He shrugged into his shirt. She heard a crash from one of the windows.

She was horrified by what she had done. "No! It cannot be!"

"Ah, but it is." Another crash came from down the hallway. Three armed men burst through the door to her chamber, three more right behind. He fought them, and his grace was a thing of beauty. But there were too many of them; they beat him to the ground, and dragged him out. She ran after them.

"Stop! Where are you taking him?"

Two of the men dressed all in black looked at each other, then at her. One of them laughed. The other said, "East of the sun, west of the moon." Both of them laughed at that. Then they were gone.

She set out immediately.

She travelled to the Brecilian Forest, to consult with the Dalish. She asked for the oldest among them, and was led to sit at the feet of an ancient, blind woman. "Please, grandmother, can you tell me what lies east of the sun, and west of the moon?"

"I cannot tell you child. But take these silver hair sticks, and travel into the Korcari Wilds. There, you will find Flemeth. Perhaps she may be able to assist you. But in return for this gift, you must leave behind your velvet boots; they will do you no good in the swamps." So she traded the grandmother boots for hair-sticks, and went on her way. The elves gave her a halla to speed her.

Barefoot, she travelled to the Korcari Wilds, and after much hardship, she made it to the hut of Flemeth. At last, she knelt at her feet, and asked, "Please, grandmother, can you tell me what lies east of the sun, and west of the moon?"

"I have seen many things in this world, but I have never heard of such a place. I cannot tell you, child. But here, take this garnet bracelet, and travel back to Ostagar. There is a woman there who works to bury the fallen. Perhaps she will know. But in return, you must leave behind your velvet dress, for it will only be destroyed where you intend to go." So she was obliged to give Flemeth her velvet dress in exchange for the bracelet. Flemeth gave her an old tunic that fell to her knees, and a piece of rope to tie it. She regained her halla, and continued to Ostagar.

She found the woman at Ostagar; she was the only one living, aside from herself. She knelt at the feet of the woman, and asked, "Please, grandmother, can you tell me what lies east of the sun, and west of the moon?"

"I can tell you what lies there, but I cannot tell you how to find it. You are speaking of a terrible stronghold. It is a fool's mission; you must turn back."

"Thank you grandmother, but I cannot. They have taken the man I love."

"In that case, if you are so determined, you must speak to the Sister at Honnleath. She may know the way. Here, take this gilded cup. But in return, you must leave behind your beaded mantle, for it will only hinder you, where you intend to go." So she traded her beautiful cloak for the goblet, and picked up a tattered, grey cape to replace it with.

She travelled to Honnleath, and sat at the feet of the Sister there. "Please, grandmother, can you tell me the way to the stronghold that is east of the sun, and west of the moon?"

"I am sorry, but I cannot tell you, child, for I have never been there. But try the Chantry in Redcliffe, for the Sister there is much more widely travelled."

She travelled to Redcliffe, and sat at the feet of the Sister. "Please, grandmother, can you tell me the way to the stronghold that is east of the sun, and west of the moon?"

"I am sorry, but I cannot tell you, child, for I have never been there. But try the Chantry at Lake Calenhad, for the Sisters there are much more widely travelled."

She travelled to Lake Calenhad, and sat at the feet of the Sister she found there. "Please, grandmother, can you tell me the way to the stronghold that is east of the sun, and west of the moon?"

"I am sorry, but I cannot tell you, child, for I have never been there. But try the Chantry in Denerim, for the Sisters there are much more widely travelled."

At last, her feet wrapped in rags, looking like nothing so much as a vagabond, she entered Denerim, and spoke to the Sisters at the Chantry there.

"Please, grandmother, I have travelled the length and breadth of Ferelden to try and save the man I love. Can you tell me the way to the stronghold that is east of the sun, and west of the moon?"

The Sister nodded. "You speak of the stronghold of the Crows, in Antiva. There is a ship in the harbour right now that is going to Antiva on behalf of the Chantry. If you give him this token, the captain will take you there."

She ran down to the docks, despite the pain in her body, and gave the Chantry's token to the captain.

When the ship neared Antiva, it was wrecked in a storm, and she nearly drowned. She woke on a beach, only her tunic, her rope belt, and the pouch that carried her three treasures with her. She crawled up the beach and found a sandy path that led up the side of a cliff. After she crested the top of the ridge, she could see a beautiful city laid out before her. An old woman stooped on the side of the path, gathering herbs.

"Please, grandmother, can you tell me, where is the stronghold that lies east of the sun, and west of the moon?"

The woman looked up at her curiously. She pointed to a jumble of buildings on the east side of the city, "There is a whorehouse called the Rising Moon." She pointed to a castle set on a cliff on the west side of the city. Many windows faced the east, looking out over the city. "There, that is the castle of the Sun."

In between, there was a fortress. The woman looked at her for a long time. "Your skin is too pale to be from here," she remarked.

The girl looked at her. "Yes."

Then she set off to find him.

She went around the outside of the building until she found the servants' entrance. She went to the kitchen. The cook looked her over, and said she could work in the kitchen, scrubbing floors. Over two days, she gathered information, and discovered that the woman who was to marry him, Belladonna, always came by the kitchen in the evening, to see to his dinner herself.

Withiel learned that Belladonna was a proud, vain woman, and conceived a plan to buy her way into Zevran's room.

The next night, she sat outside the kitchen when it was time for Belladonna to visit, and she played with the hair-sticks, twisting and twisting her hair. When Belladonna came up to the kitchen, she saw Withiel sitting there with the sticks, and she immediately coveted them. "Give me the hair-sticks, girl," she growled.

Withiel looked at her calmly, and said, "I would be happy to give them to you, Mistress. I have only one request." Belladonna arched her eyebrow, so Withiel went on: "I ask for just one night with Master Arainai." Belladonna laughed and held out her hand.

"It matters little to me. Have your fun."

Withiel was ecstatic. However, Belladonna conspired with the cook to drug him, and so when Withiel reached his side, he was fast asleep, and could not be wakened. She wept upon his chest, and lay next to him in the bed, but he did not stir.

The next night, Withiel sat outside the kitchen again, twisting and twisting the garnet bracelet around her wrist. Belladonna came up, and offered her the same deal in exchange for the bracelet. Withiel assented, but the same thing happened again. He was asleep, and could not be roused. Again, she wept upon his chest and lay next to him in the bed, but again, he did not stir. She left the room in tears.

The servants had gotten to know her, and were sympathetic to her plight. So when one of the serving girls went by to bring him his mid-day meal, she told him what Belladonna had been doing, and about the strange, dark-haired girl who had been there with him for two nights.

That night, Withiel made the same deal again, this time in exchange for the gilded cup. When the drugged drink was brought to him, he simply poured it into a plant while the servant's back was turned, and pretended to sleep.

When she reached his room, and saw him lying upon the bed, she began to weep, but he sat up, and gathered her to him. He kissed the top of her head. "There is no time for sweet reunions right now, _amora_, for we are only caught in the same trap. First, we must flee."

She smiled.

"I have a piece of rope, two kitchen knives, and a set of lock picks."

He took the knives from her hands. She pulled the rope from around her waist and stretched it between her hands. Heavy knots hung from both ends. _"Mia regazza."_ he murmured, and kissed her neck.

Together, they opened the door.


	19. How I Met Your Father

I don't know what I was thinking. There are so many people around who need help, so many darkspawn-ravaged homes and travellers coming into towns covered in blood, vagabonds with hollow eyes... Maker, Lothering. So when this woman comes to me and says that something has happened, I don't hesitate.

I’ve become far too trusting.

I realize the trap just a moment before I’m nearly crushed by a falling tree. I flail, with a total lack of grace, falling heavily in the dirt, and have to scramble just to get free of the tangle of limbs that is both me and the tree branches. Alistair is already engaged with some warriors, screaming defiance and hacking at them rather efficiently. From the sounds of the cursing, Morrigan and Leliana are stuck in the branches of the tree on the other side, and Sten is growling at them as he tries to free them. Alistair begins to glow as a crackle of magic comes from Wynne, and Skanda bounds forward, tearing up the cliffside to attack the archers.

That just leaves that serpent-tongued dirt-eater and the man who somehow knows we're Wardens.

There are traps everywhere. I want to circle, but I’m caught in the open, right in front of everything. I can't get around the side of them, no matter what I do, so I just charge forward. Turns out the bitch is a mage. A burst of fire explodes at my feet, sending me sprawling to the ground. I roll around, putting out the flames, glad that I had thought to tuck my hair up into my helm this morning. That whore. I’m going to gut her.

My throat burns, and the smell of my own burnt flesh assails my nose, but I stand, even though I can feel every burn rubbing against the plates and buckles, even though I can hardly breathe for the scorching of my suddenly parched mouth. She is surprised to see me rise, and I give her my nastiest grin as I start forward again. The man who leads this group draws his sword and heads for me, about to meet me half-way, when the bitch gets me again, with lightning this time. I shriek as the shock courses through me, stiffening my every muscle, ripping through my joints, making all my hair stand on end as my back bows painfully. The hot sparks sear my already tender skin, going straight through the armour like it's nothing, and my jaw clenches so tightly I’m afraid it's going to crack my teeth.

The blond man shoves his shoulder against my chest, sharp and hard, just as the lightning lets go of me, and knocks me flat on my back. I raise my daggers just in time to not take a blade right to the underside of my chin, and roll sideways away from him. We circle each other warily, and the bitch is watching us, looking for an opening. “Skanda!” I shout, though I’m unsure he'll be able to hear me over the sounds of everyone else screaming and the ring of metal on metal. Someone has got to distract that mage, or we're finished.

I put the man between me and her, keeping him there, even though he tries to circle me, and grin when I see that Wynne has frozen her in place. This is the opening I need to go on the offensive. I dart forward, blades raised, and as he positions himself to parry, I push his blades back, stepping in close, and snap my knee up. I’m not above a low blow, especially when the people I’m attacking are more focused on sharp things than they are on where I’m putting my feet. He grunts, sharp and loud, baring his teeth at me, and hisses as he stumbles backwards. I don't give him any time to recover, and lunge for him again.

It's clear that he's disoriented, and I use that to my advantage as I press forward, batting his blades out of the way, and then I catch his cheekbone in a right cross, the full weight of my blade and gauntlet lending extra impact. I snarl at him as he brings his blades around again, and he slashes at me, scoring a deep cut on my left arm. I scream again, mostly in defiance, because my battle rush doesn't let me feel the sting of that, not quite yet, but the blood on my armour gives the lie to my bravado. My arm goes dead, and I nearly drop my blade, but a warm rush comes over me, and I am suddenly strong again. Wynne; thank the Maker for the mages on my side.

His eyes widen, and I give him my nasty smile again as I press him back once more. There is a flurry of blades as we each try to gain the upper hand, and I realize that he's a lot better than I thought. I’m still faster than him, though, and he barely makes it out of the way in time when I go for his throat. The tip of my blade catches him high on the forehead as he leans back, almost frantic now. He's lost the confidence he had at first, and I’m pretty sure he sees his death in my eyes.

He gets my blades stuck in a high parry and I just swing my leg forward and kick him in the knee. His leg gives out to the side, and I press my advantage. Remembering my sparring with Alistair, I duck under the blond's arm and stab him in the side, three times in rapid succession. My first blow glances off his armour, the second one just cuts a strap, but the third sinks home, and as I yank my blade back, blood pours down his side. He clamps his arm down over it, turning and dancing away from me, trying to get his sword up, but then he sways and collapses.

I turn to find that I am right behind that bitch who lured us here, as she is trading fire with Wynne. My healer looks determined, and this mage looks cruel and... well, bitchy. So I grab her head from behind, yanking it back to my shoulder, and shove my blade straight up into the soft spot under her jaw, pinning her tongue to the top of her mouth. She drops like a sack of stones, and I run up the hill to help Skanda take down the archers.

My poor hound, he's taken several arrows and is favouring his left hind leg. He lays down once I’ve relieved the last archer of his head, and I look out over the battle field. Alistair is trying to pry his boot out of a bear trap and Morrigan is sitting on the wreckage of the tree, laughing at him. Sten stands in the middle of a ring of slaughtered meat, and Wynne is inspecting Leliana's broken leg. As I look down, I see that the blond man I dropped a few moments ago is still breathing, so I head back down the cliff to see if maybe I can get some answers out of him.

Kneeling in the dirt, I push his hair out of his face. The cut on his forehead is dripping blood down into his eye. Blood pools by my knee, seeping steadily from him. I drink one of Wynne's nasty bottles of healing, staring down at the pointed ear. I slap his face, hard, and he groans, then blinks. I keep my dagger well in sight for him.

He shakes his head as though to clear to it. “I rather thought I’d wake up dead,” he says, and I snort.

I laugh at him, and it's not very nice. “The day is young,” I tell him, spinning my dagger in my hand for emphasis.

The man shifts, and rolls onto his back, wincing. “What a _fine_ sense of humour you have.” He looks at me out of the corner of his eye and waves a careless hand. “Ah, I’ll save you the effort of torturing me. What do you want of me?” He closes his eyes again, unconcerned.

I look at him, cocking my head. He's not afraid of me. I could kill him, right now, and he's not afraid of it. “Why aren't you more worried?”

He cracks an eye to look at me. “Eh. At this point I’ve got nothing to lose. I’m dead no matter which way you look at it, yes?”

I snort. “Pf. Fine. Who sent you?” I look around again, checking on everyone. Alistair is peeling off his boot to check the damage to his leg, Wynne is healing Leliana, Morrigan is eating a piece of bread, Skanda is slinking down off the hillside, slowly and painfully, and Sten is wiping his blade off on the tunic of one of the archers, methodically checking it for spots.

He sighs. “Ah... Very ugly, sour looking fellow. Loghain, I believe.” This gets my attention, and my gaze swings back to the blond man on the ground.

I feel my mouth twist, and another coil is added to the cold knot of hatred I harbour for shem nobles. “So he hires an elf to kill an elf. Fitting,” I spit.

He laughs and shakes his head, waving his hand again. “No, no, that was not planned. I hail from Antiva; I am a Crow.” He swallows, looking a little sick.

I sit back, startled. I just bested a Crow. At night, the children of the alienage sit and whisper in the dark about the Crows. The Crows will come to take you away if you are a naughty child. They put you to work and whip you with a thousand lashes, then they suck out your soul and turn you into a cold-hearted murderer, made of nothing but smoke, shadows, and sharp blades. They never give up, they never surrender, and if they are sent for you, it doesn’t matter how far you run, or where you try to hide. I just bested a Crow? In what world does _that_ happen? I stare at him a moment, trying to gather my suddenly scattered wits. “So now what? I have to kill you so you won't follow me and try again?”

He shakes his head, shifting again and wincing. He's starting to look a little pale, even under his bronzed skin, and I wonder if he's going to make it through the rest of the questions I have for him. “I failed when you weren't already looking for it; do you really think I would believe myself to be successful now that I’ve tipped my hand?” This Crow is just a man; he is flesh and rapidly spreading blood, surrendering, giving up.

I sigh. I want to hurry this up. “What's your reward for success?”

“Hm... Success... Perhaps... some goods, a little coin... Another day, perhaps another week of life... but ultimately, it is the respect, and the fear. The people fear the Crows, so they don't bother me... but, as you can see, that is neither here nor there.”

I rub my forehead, likely smearing blood all over my face. “So you're loyal to the Crows?”

The Crow shakes his head, looking weary. “Loyalty is an interesting concept. I’m as loyal as can be, for someone purchased at the age of seven for three sovereigns, which is a good price, especially since I was nothing but a bag of bones who didn't know the pommel of a dagger from the pointy end.”

“So you're loyal to yourself.”

The blood under him is growing at an alarming rate, and I am beginning to think maybe I need to do something about it, if I want him to keep answering questions, but... I can't trust him. “Well, aren't we all? I am as loyal as I can be, but I do not like the idea of being killed for simple failure, because... how will I fix it, or succeed next time, or learn from the mistake? It seems like such a waste.”

I shake my head. I can't argue with that. “What would you do if I just stood up and walked away?”

“My dear, in case you have not noticed, I am wounded. I would die. And if I did not die now, I would be killed later for having failed – and quite gruesomely, I assure you. I would be better off dying right here. Exsanguination is much like falling asleep.” The man rubs at his face, looking like he might be inclined for a nap right now.

Time to get to the heart of it. “And if I healed you, and took you with me?”

He laughs incredulously, shaking his head and closing his eyes. “And... what would you want, for that?”

“I can see that tactics is not your skill. What is?”

“Ooh, you words are as sharp as your blades. Is that a way to treat a dying man? With mockery?”

The assassin starts to turn grey, and I sigh, relenting, and pull out a poultice. “Here. I’m not done with you yet, and you're coming with me. If you try to kill me, I’ll have Skanda eat you.”

“Oh, we can't have that – bestiality is not my thing.” I stare at him a moment, and he leers. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. Gallows humour.

Skanda raises his hackles and looks incredibly menacing. I watch the Crow struggle, obviously weakened, and sigh again. “Take that off, and I’ll put the bandage on,” I say, gesturing impatiently to his armour.

He curls, trying to sit up and I pull on him to get him upright. He looks at me for a moment, blinking, then a slow, drunken smile spreads across his face. I suspect he's lost too much blood now, and rush to help him, unbuckling the side of his armour, peeling it off, then pushing him back down. He lands on his back on the ground with a thump and stares up at the sky, eyes glazing.

“I have many skills. I can fight... I’m... very st... stealthy...” His voice takes on a slightly dreamlike quality and I hurry, pressing the bandage to his side. “Picking... locks...” he mumbles, and the poultice begins to glow. “Bedwarming,” he slurs, chuckling, and my eyes narrow. I’ll let it go; he is delirious. He blinks, long and slow, and then his eyes clear. He looks up at me and studies my face intently. At last, he says, “But... Honestly – given the choice? I’d rather take my chances with you.”

Alistair comes up at exactly the wrong moment. “What? We're taking the assassin with us? Do you really think that's wise?”

I ignore him and look down at the Crow, serious as I’ve ever been. “I could have let you die just now. Do you understand why I didn't?”

He looks from me to Alistair and back, then glances around the clearing at all the carnage and wreckage. “I think I know why, but I don't think I understand, and it makes me curious.”

I stand up, dusting off my pants. “Follow me, protect me, and keep me from people like yourself, and one day, after this is all over, I’ll tell you why. If I die, you'll never know.”

Alistair gasps. “You can't be serious!”

The blond man takes my hand and lets me help him up. “That is a fine bargain. I am Zevran. Zev, to my friends.”

“Withiel,” I say, and he nods.

“I here-by pledge my oath of loyalty to you, until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation. This, I swear.” He crosses his wrists over his chest and bows his head.

“What?” Alistair says again. “Don't I get a say in this? What's to stop him from just killing us in our sleep?”

I am truly irritated now and turn around quickly to look at him, feeling nothing but contempt, in this moment, for my brother Warden. “Well, that's what _you're_ for, then!” I snap. “And no: no, you _don't_ get a say in this. You said you can't lead, that you'll get yourself lost in the woods with no pants, Alistair, and then you push me forward so far that I’m stuck making all the hard decisions. If you want to act like an executioner, then fine, _you_ look him in the eye and kill him. I do not have the stomach to simply kill a man who just offered me his life, so don't try and dress it up pretty; you didn't have much of a protest when we decided to bring Sten.”

“Sten didn't try to kill _us_!” Alistair protests.

“Oh, yes... I’m sure the residents of that farmhold will _totally appreciate_ the distinction,” I say, narrowing my eyes, and he suddenly deflates.

“Right. I guess we need all the help we can get. Just another sign of how desperate we really are.”

Everyone is silent for a moment as they see me back Alistair down, and I feel the way the group looks at me changing a little. I turn around and Leliana is picking up Zevran's things for him. I can't afford to have her next to him; if he really is going to try for us again, Leliana would be too perfect as a hostage. It would be way to easy to use her against us. She's just so... sweet. She's too trusting by half; he'd feed her a poison and that would be it.

I come up next to her and take the cuirass from her hand. “Look, I’ll take over here, Lel. You guys get these idiots stripped, stacked, and ashed. And Wynne, please heal Alistair before he falls over.” I turn around and look at the assassin again. “Zevran,” I begin, but he shakes his head.

“Zev.”

“Zev,” I amend, feeling a little strange about it. “Uh. You come with me.” I’ve got a million things I want to ask him. He is somehow a person, not smoke and shadows; he is my childhood nightmare made flesh, yet I spilled his blood. I lead him up the hill a little way, where we are clearly visible to everyone in the party. Skanda prowls along beside us. “How important is your honour to you?”

He smirks. “Honour is a luxury, and one I have never had much of. However, I am smart enough to know which hand feeds me, and I have no intention of biting it.”

I blink, not understanding. “How is honour a luxury? When they take everything else from you, your strength as a person is all that is left.”

“Ah, but I am not a person; I am property, and as such, am not afforded the luxury of having my own personal code. I am beholden to the rules of the oaths I take and the contracts I am given. Is it so different here?”

“No... It's not different here, I just refuse to accept it. I am not an object, I am not a toy; I am a person, and I have a right to dignity. So... Honour, personal integrity. In a world like ours, it's the only thing they can't strip from us unless we let them.”

He looks around sardonically, and his eyes are so... empty. “Then you are a stronger person than I, and, as you can see, I don't have much of a survival instinct, either. What does it matter? I’m just a tool; I attack where I am directed. In your hands and under your direction, I can still be a weapon, but you are right, I am nobody's plaything... just a blade in the dark.”

I cover my mouth with my hand and shake my head. _They suck out your soul..._ I begin to understand, but it's not like in the stories; this is a man, a person, and they have broken him, the same way that I am broken, only worse: they've turned him into a killer.

I can't just leave him to die at the hands of the shems, just another slave's blood to be spilt, just another elf on the pile. Stack them up and burn them, we'll get more when we go and rape the Dales again. I clench my fists and look away. Silently, I vow: if I can do nothing else for him, I am at least going to give him back his life. We are not slaves. We are free.

We make our own destinies.


End file.
